Another Hero: Season Two
by rainysfeverdreams
Summary: A Doyle-centric retelling of AtS Season Two. Part of my "Another Hero" series, which includes a prequel by that title and "Another Hero: Season One."
1. Judgment, Pt 1

**Title:** ANOTHER HERO: Season Two

 **Summary:** A Doyle-centric retelling of the second season of Angel. This is part of my **Another Hero** series, which begins with an alternate version of "Hero," and is followed by **Another Hero: Season One**. It isn't absolutely necessary to read those stories in order to read this one, but it is strongly encouraged for maximum enjoyment. I do refer to some things that only happened in my version of events.

 **A/N:** If you've read my Season One rewrite, then you know the drill. The chapters are labeled by the episode they correspond with and I aim to match the theme and general feeling of the actual show. Which is why I feel like a slight disclaimer needs to be made here... just as the show became darker and more serialized during Season Two, so will this story. In some cases, I'll merely make passing references to the "case of the week" for timeline purposes, but the arc of this story is one that extends from beginning to end, with a lot of ups and downs in between. I guess what I'm saying is, you aren't going to want to skip around too much with this one. Everything is important, everything happens for a reason. Also, hang on to your hats, this here is going to be an emotional rollercoaster! It'll make you laugh, it'll make you cry, hopefully it won't make you throw your computer/tablet against any hard surfaces.

But you trust me, right? You should definitely trust me. Enjoy the ride, my friends. ;)

* * *

 **"Judgment," Part I**

"No! I love you. This can't be over!" Cordelia shrieked, reaching out to the dark-haired man standing across from her, placing her hand on his shoulder to emphasize her desperate words.

With barely a hint of emotion, he replied. "It is over. And now it's time to move on."

"But, I gave you _everything_!" She cried. "You're everything to me. I'm nothing without you, baby."

A pair of cold, unfeeling eyes met Cordelia's heartfelt plea and inspiration hit her. Or rather, it hit him—SMACK!

"Ow! Hey… ow… she hit me." Cordelia's scene-partner stumbled backward, lifting his hand to his rapidly-reddening cheek, he held up the script in his other hand. "Where does it say that in the script?"

"I threw that in myself." Cordelia explained with a mildly apologetic smile, turning to face the acting-coach who had been sitting quietly observing the two of them while they worked. "This Eleanor chick seems so spineless. Begging this worthless jerk not to dump her. I don't get it. I'd totally be the dumpee in this scenario—not that I would've dated this loser in the first place. Not an ounce of substance to be found here, y'know what I mean?"

"Alright, Cordelia, that's good. Very good. You _should_ tap into the part of yourself that can empathize with Eleanor, but it's important to remember, _she_ is not _you_. _She_ is trying to stop Johnny from breaking up with her."

"And she doesn't slap him!" Bruce, her disgruntled scene partner, protested.

"Right. I can try it again. No slapping this time." Cordelia promised, holding her hand up in the universal sign for vow-making.

"Use that conflict." The acting coach instructed, doing a little hand motion for emphasis. "From the top."

 _Beep. Beep. Beep._

"Oh, sorry. One sec." Cordelia said, scrambling for her beeper in order to silence it. An address flashed across the face of the small electronic device, along with the telltale "D" which served as the sender's signature. As if that was necessary. She silenced the annoying beeping, shoved the pager back in her pocket and turned back to her scene partner. "Okay, ready now."

Bruce gave her a weary look as he lifted his script and started reading from the top of the page. "Face it, Eleanor. We're through."

"I don't believe you." Cordelia replied, fumbling to find her place on the page and ignoring the tiny voice in the back of her head that told her she should be going to her car instead of continuing on with her acting class. Funny enough, the voice seemed to have an Irish accent. "Don't do this, uh..."

 _Beep. Beep. Beep._

"Doyle." Cordelia grumbled as her beeper went off for a second time.

"Johnny." Bruce corrected, more than a little irritated by yet another interruption. "Can't you turn that thing off?"

She didn't bother apologizing this time, once again yanking the device out of her pocket and staring at the small screen. This time it simply said "911." She sighed heavily, hesitating another long moment before silencing the gadget and shoving it back into her pocket once again. It was _always_ 911.

"Are you ready _now_?" Bruce wondered, with a put upon expression. As she stared at the actor across from her, who was as generically attractive as humanly possible and couldn't act his way out of a paper bag, she made her decision.

"Actually… I have to go." She stated unapologetically. She turned to address the acting coach as she walked across the stage to exit. "We can pick it up from there next time, right?"

The acting coach never had a chance to answer, as Cordelia had already grabbed her purse, shoved her script inside and slipped out the stage door, which exited straight into the parking lot where her car waited. "If this _isn't_ a 911, it's gonna become one, Doyle." She mumbled under her breath as she wrenched open her driver-side door and plunked herself into her car.

Little more than twenty minutes later she pulled up to the front of the Hollywood Gold's Gym, tires screeching as she came to an abrupt stop. She hopped out of the car and tossed the valet her keys, as she proceeded to the badly dressed individual pacing impatiently on the front steps.

"What took ya so long?" Doyle wondered, yanking the front door open for her as she reached the top landing.

"Are you kidding me? Twenty minutes from Westwood to East Hollywood at this hour? That's practically unheard of." She sassed, walking ahead of him into the well air-conditioned lobby of the gym. "Did you forget I had my acting class this afternoon?"

"I didn't forget." Doyle replied, falling into synchronized step beside her. "How'd it go? All that rehearsing we did help?"

"It was going great until I was so rudely interrupted by your pages." She huffed, as they ignored the man behind the counter waving for them to stop walking. They continued straight ahead, beyond the double-glass doors that led to the main workout space. "I was really digging deep into some highly emotional stuff. Really _becoming_ Eleanor… oh, who am I kidding? That chick's a total wimp, and I'm glad I had an excuse to get the hell out of her pathetic, and undoubtedly frumpy, shoes… So, this is the praetorian sacrifice thing, right?"

Doyle was chuckling at her commentary, as they stormed through the glass doors and found Angel standing before a wall of mirrors. Not one of them bore his reflection. Wesley stood several feet behind him, a large bag of weapons at his feet.

"Just in time." Angel noted, right before he kicked in the wall of mirrors, revealing a horrific tableau hidden behind the crumbling shards of glass. Two defenseless humans were bound and gagged in the center of the secret room, while a menacing red-robed figure stood by, waiting for a large demon to plunge his sword into the sacrifices.

"This is the part where I tell you to stop." Angel announced, as he proceeded to morph into his vamp face. The red-robed figure fearlessly, and foolishly, charged, essentially landing right on Angel's fist and knocking himself to the floor. "Followed closely by the part where I kick your ass."

"I love it when he gets sassy with 'em. I think he gets that from you." Doyle remarked to Cordelia, before snatching a weapon from Wesley's bag and leaping into action behind Angel. Wesley did the same, while Cordelia turned to the crowd of gawking gym-goers, flashing them a reassuring smile. "Nothing to see here folks. Just another reason _not_ to do steroids."

* * *

The smell of fresh coffee and buttery deliciousness wafted down the hallway, rousing Cordelia from the warm cocoon of her bed. Grabbing her robe, she padded sleepily down the hall and found the creator of the heavenly aromas hard at work in her kitchen. Over the many months since they'd first started dating, she'd discovered that Doyle had a number of hidden talents. His ability to create not only edible, but genuinely tasty, meals in her kitchen, being one of them. A remnant of his years spent pitching in at soup kitchens and homeless shelters, he was nowhere close to being a gourmet chef, but he was far more domestically capable than Cordelia herself. He hardly burned anything.

Breakfast was his specialty—even better than Angel's, which made sense, since Doyle could actually taste food properly. Throughout the summer, Cordelia had become accustomed to feasting on plates full of fluffy eggs and crispy bacon, or loaves of cinnamon-infused French toast, or mountains of buttermilk pancakes, all served at the first light of dawn, regardless of whether any sleep had yet to come. This morning, thankfully, the pancakes were coming _after_ a nearly full night of much-needed rest, which meant she'd enjoy them all the more.

Especially, since they would be enjoying them alone.

"Good morning." She said to the back of Doyle's head, which was firmly focused on scooping pancakes off the hot griddle before they went from pleasantly crisp to unpleasantly charred.

"'Mornin' Princess." He replied cheerily, giving her a lightning quick flash of his dimple. "Hope you're hungry."

Watching him hard at work over her stove always made her hungry… perhaps, not exactly the way he intended, however. It was little moments such as this that Cordelia almost had to pinch herself. She'd gotten really lucky in the love department, and she was supremely glad she hadn't missed out on the right thing during her quest for all the wrong ones.

"It was a long night of demon killing and dismemberment." She reminded with faux-enthusiasm, plopping herself into one of the dining room chairs. "I'm starved."

Within moments, a steaming hot cup of coffee was set before her, followed by a smiling plate full of pancakes. Literally, smiling—Doyle had skillfully shaped the pancake batter into a smiley face, which, in turn, made her smile down at the face on her plate. "I love it when you do that."

"I know." He replied, with a wink. "That's why I keep doing it."

"Syrup?" She asked, batting her eyelashes up at him cutely.

The grin didn't leave his face as he disappeared into the kitchen, returning with the maple syrup, which he placed down on the table beside her. "Anything else I can getcha, Princess?"

She raised a finger to the side of her mouth in a thoughtful pose. "Hmmm, maybe one more thing…" She teased, before using her finger to tap the center of her lips. She then pursed them, waiting for him to fulfill her final morning request. He gladly leaned down and gave her a sweet good morning kiss. Her response was whispered as if it was a secret. "I love it when you do that, too."

"That's why I keep doing it." He grinned down at her, slinking back to the kitchen to retrieve his own breakfast.

Cordelia wasted no time digging into the hot meal set before her. Sure, it was loaded with sugar, fat and carbs, which would probably go straight to her thighs. But, she _had_ been to the gym the night before… technically. Not to mention, lugging around heavy weapons and burying demon carcasses was a great way to stay in shape. And, if that wasn't enough, she was almost positive they'd be doing it again that evening, and the next one as well. There'd hardly been a night in recent memory when they weren't running after some big, bad, evil thing. The good fight did a body good.

Assuming the body didn't get bruised, beaten, bitten, burned, impaled, mutilated or, of course, destroyed completely. All of which were possibilities in their line of work.

Gone were the days when she and Doyle would sit around the claustrophobic Angel Investigations office, listening to the sound of an empty answering machine and flirting shamelessly in order to pass the time between cases. For one thing, the office had been blown to hell, for another, they had more cases than they knew what to do with. Nowadays, finding time to flirt was a luxury, while they worked out of Cordelia's even-more-claustrophobic apartment. Haven't the Powers That Be ever heard of summer vacation?!

Actually, she couldn't blame their workaholic summer on the Powers themselves. Less than half of the their cases were vision-related these days, which was still more than the paying cases. No, the majority of the cases were of their own making—of Angel's making, to be exact. The man was on a mission, that was for sure. The promise of actual humanity could do that to a person—er, vampire. Still, _some people_ already happened to be human, or half-human, at the very least. And those people could use a little R &R.

"Can't we skip work today and do something fun instead?" Cordelia wondered, as Doyle reentered the room, placing his pancake-filled plate on the table across from hers. "Remember _fun_? It was that thing we used to have before we became slaves to the Shanshu scoreboard." She idly gestured to the whiteboard taking up space in her living room. "It's been a long beachless summer, Doyle. My complexion is nearly as ghastly as yours these days."

She could see the smile play on Doyle's lips from behind the coffee mug he had raised to his mouth. "I'll talk to Angel."

"Where have I heard that one before?" She said skeptically, as she stabbed one of the pancake eyeballs off her plate, along with the blueberry that made up its iris. "It's impossible to play hooky when work comes to us."

As if on cue, a knock at the front door signaled the end of their private time together for the remainder of the day and probably most of the evening as well. Dennis knew the drill by now, opening the door to allow entrance to the most English member of the Angel Investigations team.

"Good morning!" Wesley greeted them in his typical enthusiastic fashion. "I found the most fascinating text on Sloth demons last night. I really think you—Oh, pancakes?!"

Doyle had already gotten up from the table, well before Wesley made it completely into the dining room to see the breakfast plates. Wesley placed the book he was carrying aside, and eagerly took a seat at the table. Doyle returned with a plate already made in anticipation of their co-worker's arrival. He plopped it in front of their guest, and went back to the kitchen to grab the coffee urn.

"Please pass the syrup?" Wesley requested, rubbing his hands together excitedly, before picking up his fork. He finally took a long look down at the plate in front of him. "Is it me, or do these pancakes look rather grumpy?"

* * *

Doyle sat on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, shuffling a deck of cards and half-watching as Cordelia paced frenetically across her living room carpet. She had spent the better part of the last half hour subtly airing her grievances about the status of Angel Investigations' current headquarters, aka, her apartment. This wasn't exactly stop-the-presses material, considering it happened quite regularly. She didn't go so far as to demand that they get out, so much as suggest it _constantly_. Not that Doyle could blame her. Fighting the good fight was one thing, having your entire life—and private space—consumed by it, was another.

"Don't you think you'd become a real boy _that_ much sooner if we had a real office again?" Cordelia was pleading in Angel's general direction. "Plus, aren't you tired of staying in Doyle's crappy little apartment? There's only so much a few air fresheners can do to improve years of stink. And, you, with the super-senses. I'm thinking that's gotta be pretty unpleasant."

"Hey." Doyle objected, pausing his card shuffling. "My place doesn't smell that bad."

"Thanks to me, it doesn't." Cordelia fired back. "Nowadays it's nearly pine forest fresh… Assuming that pine forest has been burned to ash and is still smoldering."

As per usual, Wesley's head was buried in a book and Angel's was buried in the floorboards, as he leaned against the mantle over Cordelia's fireplace. Somewhere in the middle of all that Dennis, was attempting to tidy up the place, which only succeeded in unnerving Wesley when the book he'd been about to pick up, suddenly floated out of reach.

"I'm working on a new office." Angel claimed, as he had done for most of the summer, without ever actually seeming like he was, in fact, doing anything of the sort. He was far too busy chasing down demons that would otherwise have never been on their radar. Doyle had tried, on more than one occasion, to gently apply some pressure to the breaks—the war against evil didn't have to be waged in one summer, after all. Then again, he'd been the one insisting there was a finish line out there in the first place, and _knowing_ it was there, changed the game, not only for Angel, but for Doyle as well. Cordelia and Wesley didn't have much of a choice but to play by the new rules, to varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"It's bad enough I don't have time for anything remotely social anymore that doesn't involve the three of you and some angry hell-beast." She continued her unending lament. "But, I can't even veg out on my sofa with a carton of nonfat fro-yo, because you _never_ leave."

"You should go ahead. Eat your, um… fro-yo." Angel tried to sound something resembling sympathetic.

"Actually, I'm pretty sure Wesley ate it all." Doyle piped up from his place on the couch, having gone back to his idle shuffling. He could barely stifle a snicker. Jokes at the Brit's expense were his only form of entertainment these days, so he had to make them count.

Wesley raised his head from his book, and turned a pair of contrite eyes on Cordelia. "I've been meaning to replace it."

Cordelia only glared in response, while Angel tried desperately to segue back to the other matter they were supposed to be discussing. "Are you sure that thing we killed last night was the Carnyss?"

"Oh yes, quite sure." Wesley confirmed ardently. "Which leaves us at square one with the elusive Khee demon… unfortunately, all research on the Khee population tends to point toward their rather impressive talent for camouflage."

"L.A. isn't exactly the Amazon rainforest." Doyle pointed out. "Unless it's figured out how to camouflage itself as a very slimy school bus, someone's bound to notice a demon o' _that_ size in the naked city."

Angel sighed with muted frustration and craned his neck in Doyle's direction. "Do you think you can check in with some of your old contacts?" He wondered. "Get a beat on this thing."

Doyle had barely had a chance to even consider answering for himself, when Cordelia side-stepped into the space between the two best friends. "Oh no. Hold it _right_ there. I thought we all agreed after what happened last time, that Doyle's contacts were off limits."

They hadn't actually agreed on anything of the sort, but it had been heavily implied after the "last time." As much as Doyle had always liked being the go-to guy for the word on the street, he wasn't exactly eager to stick his nose where it wasn't wanted—and it wasn't wanted _anywhere_ these days. It had become readily apparent, through violence mostly, that Doyle was now persona non grata amongst the strange bedfellows he'd once kept. His last fact-finding mission had resulted in duel black eyes, a sprained ankle and a displaced shoulder—injuries that had taken a while to heal, seeing how he'd acquired them while he was human. And what he hadn't told Cordelia, was that the sprained ankle was of his own doing—had he not clumsily jumped to safety when he'd had the chance, he would have likely added "crushed skull" to his list of ailments.

"Cordelia, we have no other options." Angel debated calmly. "We can't just let that thing roam around the city, doing whatever it wants."

"Why not?" She argued in return. "It's not like it killed anyone."

"Yet." Angel added. "It hasn't killed anyone _yet_ … and I'd really like to make sure it never has the chance."

"I do know a place where we can get info without the threat o' violence." Doyle mentioned offhandedly from his place on the couch, hoping to diffuse the mounting tension between his best friend and his girlfriend. He packed the deck of cards together tightly and plopped them down on the coffee table. "It's completely safe. In fact, we could all go, make it a social occasion…"

If Cordelia had heard what Doyle said, she didn't bother to respond. Instead she had turned her eyes toward the rug below her feet and abruptly shouted, "Ugh! You have _got_ to be kidding me!" She squatted down and began rubbing at the spot she'd just noticed. "Okay, which one of you tracked demon blood on the carpet?"

She stared at each one of the occupants of the room accusingly. When she got to Doyle, he raised a finger, signaling that something was about to happen, which she naturally assumed was a vision. The change in her demeanor was instantaneous—her features softened as she instinctively jumped up to move closer to him, the stain on the carpet becoming a distant memory.

"Aaaachoooo!" Doyle sneezed, causing Cordelia to reflexively step back, as his face morphed into its demon visage, spikes and all.

"Gesundheit." Wesley said from across the room, dropping his head back into the open book in his lap.

Doyle shook off his demon face, and rubbed his itchy nose, narrowing his eyes at the incriminating incense that was now burning on the end table beside him. "Dennis, man. What've I told ya 'bout the incense?"

Cordelia quickly moved forward, stubbed out the burning incense and fanned away the sweet smelling smoke. "He means well, Doyle. Just trying to cover up the stench of musty old books and sweaty males."

"I don't sweat." Angel responded, earning himself a begrudging look from Doyle. Sure, rub it in that vampires have almost no scent, while Brachens have a fairly specific one, easy to detect by most other demon breeds and certain humans, specifically those named Cordelia Chase. Although, Doyle supposed it wasn't actually the demon smell she complained about, but rather the stale cigarette smoke and sickeningly sweet smell of spilled alcohol that occasionally clung to the fabric of his clothes.

As Cordelia worked to remove the sneeze-inducing incense from the room, Doyle raised his hand once again as a different type of warning bell went off in his head. His body jerked forward as the intense stream of pain and accompanying images fired through his neurons, causing him to lose all sense of the world around him. All he could do was hope that he didn't land headfirst into any pointy objects, while his brain got repeatedly bludgeoned by an unseen force from above.

Once the chaos of his vision receded, Doyle found himself leaning halfway off the couch, with Cordelia's arms securely wrapped around him, ensuring that he hadn't crashed forward into the coffee table. As his muscles relaxed and he slowly sat back on the couch cushions, her grip didn't loosen. She held him close, and raised a hand to his head to gently massage some of the pressure away. Angel had moved closer to Doyle's side as well, but his services weren't needed. Cordelia had things under control; no matter what else she was doing when a vision hit, she made it her mission to be at Doyle's side. She saw the toll they took on him, and she knew she could offer Doyle far more comfort than anyone else in the room. The kind of comfort he needed after having a parade of agony and terror march through his head at top volume. Although, in this particular instance, he didn't sense much in the way of terror.

"What did you see?" Angel asked gently, as Doyle acclimated his nervous system to reality.

"Nasty looking demon. Didn't recognize the breed." Doyle explained, lifting his own hand to massage his temple, as Cordelia retracted her own. "But before ya go out there all guns-a-blazing, I got the distinct impression it needs our help…"


	2. Judgment, Pt 2

**"Judgment," Part II**

 _"_ _I'm so excited. And I just can't hide it. I'm about to lose control and I think I like it."_

The large, gawky demon danced across the stage, bopping along to the music and singing vaguely off-key, but not without enthusiasm. The rest of the patrons of the club, both humans and demons alike, barely gave the warbling demon any notice as they nursed alcoholic beverages and scrambled to sign up for their own turn at the mic.

"When I said I wanted to do something social, I wasn't really thinking demon-karaoke bar." Cordelia clarified, arching a perfectly shaped brow at the man beside her. "I was thinking something way cooler than this."

"It's not just a demon-karaoke bar. It's a sanctuary!" Doyle said enthusiastically, as if that made any difference about the cool-factor, or lack thereof. He had brought his coworkers to the club known as Caritas in order to kill two birds with one stone—firstly, he could chat up some of his old acquaintances for leads on their latest cases without getting his ass kicked, and secondly, they could get out and have a little fun! "What's more, the Host of this place—that green guy in the flashy suit—he can see people's auras when they sing."

"Is that as dirty as it sounds?" Cordelia wondered, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

"Depends what there is to see, Princess. Ours may be dirtier than most." Doyle replied, with a mischievous wink, slipping an arm around her shoulders as they took in the sight of the crowded room. "To put it in simpler terms, the guy's both a psychic and an empath, but he needs ya to sing in order to be able to do a proper reading."

"So, psychic karaoke?" Wesley mused, looking rather intrigued by the prospect. "That could be useful in our line of work. I have to wonder why you didn't mention this place sooner?"

"I was just trying to spare the general public from the musical stylings of a certain tone deaf vampire." Doyle noted, turning to Angel who had been silently standing on his other side in abject horror.

"I don't sing." Angel deadpanned, as if to emphasize Doyle's point and argue it at the same time.

"Ah…that's not an understatement." Doyle replied with a pained expression. "But get a few pints in ya, throw on a little Manilow and y'do something vaguely resembling singing."

Angel's death glare was all the response necessary. Clearly, that wasn't a secret he'd wanted Doyle to share with the group.

"Well, this sounds like it could get humiliating for people who are not me. Let's give it a shot." Cordelia snarked, searching for an empty table they could claim for themselves with slightly more zest than when they'd first entered.

"It could help us with the case." Wesley reasoned. Whether or not he actually thought that or just wanted to hear Angel embarrass himself was anyone's guess. "Or, may even tell us something about future cases."

"I don't sing." Angel gritted out his unhappy reply for a second time.

At that moment, the gregarious green-skinned, red-horned demon known only as the Host sashayed up to their little group, sizing each of them up appreciatively before settling his eyes on Doyle. "There you are, my little slice of Irish soda bread. Haven't seen you in ages. I was worried we'd lost you."

"Was close there a few times, but somehow I've managed to stay in one piece." Doyle responded, slapping the Host's arm in a show of familiarity and turning toward the others to make the necessary introductions. "Like I was tellin' ya guys, this is the Host of this fine establishment. He's good people."

The Host planted his eyes squarely on Angel. "Now _that_ is one soul I'm anxious to read—and oh, what a handsome package it comes wrapped inside. I do hope you'll be gracing my stage this evening, big guy. Or in the very least, lending me that _fabulous_ coat of yours."

Angel opened his mouth to reply, but it was Cordelia who supplied the now all-too familiar answer. "Let me save you the effort. He doesn't sing." She griped, giving Angel some serious side-eye. "Unless he's drunkenly serenading my boyfriend, apparently."

The vibrant green demon turned his appreciative eyes on Cordelia and smiled wide, revealing two rows of pearly whites amidst the sea of green that was his face. "Aren't you a vision?" He said admiringly. "And not in the skull-crushing way Doyle's so familiar with. I told him there was an angel in his future—looks like I was right as usual."

"Actually, he's Angel." Doyle clarified, hitching a thumb back over in Angel's direction.

"No, I think I was right the first time." The Host replied, giving Cordelia a flirtatious wink. "Do you have a name, sassafras? Or should I just stick to calling you beautiful?"

"Cordelia." She offered, allowing the Host to kiss her hand chivalrously. She followed that up with her thousand-watt smile, enjoying both the attention and the compliment. "So, Doyle used to come here a lot, huh? Is he any good?"

"Oh, there were nights when I couldn't pry that one off the stage—and with pipes like that, who would want to!" The Host replied, waving his pink-tinted beverage in the air, before finally turning to acknowledge the final member of their little ensemble. "How about you, my tall, dark and so obviously not-American friend? Stage hog or stage fright?"

Wesley shrugged uncomfortably, eyeing the large crowd around them, "I can't say I've had much of an opportunity to sing in public..."

"Strictly an in-the-shower, kinda guy." The Host guessed. "Hey, I get it, the acoustics are great. But, I much prefer reading clients on the stage. Less awkward that way."

"Do you have trouble sleeping?" Cordelia commented dryly. "I bet Wesley's future would work better than Valium."

The Host chuckled politely, giving Cordelia a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I wouldn't be so sure about that, pumpkin. As futures go, I'd say I'm looking at four rather remarkable ones right here." The Host turned his head toward Doyle, giving him a curious look.

"I thought you could only read us if we sing." Angel spoke up, a flicker of hopefulness penetrating his otherwise unreadable surface. He really had no intention of singing. _Ever_. Which, as Doyle could attest, was a kindness to all parties present who were in possession of ears.

"Well, what can I say? Some auras are brighter than others." The Host said with a dramatic shrug, gesturing for them to take a table that had recently opened up nearby. "I can't read _much_ if you don't sing, but it doesn't mean I'm deaf, dumb and blind. Now, who am I putting on tonight's list?" The Host took in four sets of averted eyes and sucked his teeth in disappointment. "Don't all jump at once now."

Cordelia leaned over and nudged Doyle in the ribs with her elbow. "Why are you even pretending like you don't want to go up there and show off? I _know_ that's at least part of the reason you dragged us here." She cocked her head at him in a silent challenge. "I'm sure I'll find it _incredibly_ _sexy_ if you're as good as he says you are."

She had him, and she knew it. There wasn't much he wouldn't do in the interest of impressing his girlfriend.

"Yeah, okay. Sign me up for the usual." Doyle responded after only the slightest hint of hesitation. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the karaoke aspect; more like he wasn't eager to know any more about his future than he already did. Which was nothing, essentially. Ever since he'd almost died—scratch that, ever since _he was supposed to have died_ —his future was a big blank slate. And, he sort of felt it best to keep it that way. After all, Doyle's future was insignificant. It was the future of those around him that really mattered—Angel's in particular.

He turned his pair of twinkling eyes back toward the brunette seated at his side. "What's say we make it a duet, darlin'?"

Cordelia turned to glance at the slug-like demon currently doing a fairly impressive Sinatra impression. "As you should know by now, Doyle, I'm not one to share the spotlight. You can put me down for Whitney Houston's _Greatest Love of All_." She instructed the Host, who nodded as he snapped his fingers at the bartender to serve their table.

"I do believe the children are our future." The Host enthused. "And I have a feeling there won't be a dry eye in the house." With that, he sauntered away to greet another table of rabble-rousers.

"Doyle… isn't there something you're forgetting?" Angel asked. All the others had made themselves comfortable at the table as Angel awkwardly stood next to the remaining empty chair, giving Doyle a pointed look.

"Nah, someone will come by for our drink order. Take a load off, man." Doyle replied, indicating the empty space at the table.

"I mean, the real reason we came here." Angel reminded him. "So, you could talk to some sources. Find out more about the demons we're supposed to be tracking down."

Doyle frowned up at his boss—the guy really didn't know how to relax. It was all rush, rush, kill the demon. Begrudgingly Doyle pushed himself out of the chair he had all-too-recently settled into. "Right. Ah… I think I see Merl over there—can't say I trust the guy, but lucky for us, he has a big mouth."

Angel gestured for Doyle to lead the way through the crowd, which he did only after casting one last longing look at his vacated seat beside Cordelia, where a pale-amber colored beverage was sure to be placed, complete with little square cocktail napkin.

* * *

An hour later, Doyle had gotten the information they needed after chatting up several old acquaintances—at least two of which, would have gladly done him violence if they'd encountered him in any other setting where they _could_ do violence. Hence, the allure of Caritas as a haven for snitches. Doyle followed up his networking with an inspiring rendition of U2's _Mysterious Ways_ and drank just enough to make Cordelia worry that she'd need Angel to carry Doyle's drunk ass home. The jury was still out on that last one.

Overall, Doyle felt content with a successful team outing. Two major goals were achieved—information was gathered and fun was being had by at least three out of four Angel Investigations employees.

As Doyle exited the stage to a round of overly enthusiastic applause and wolf whistles, the Host waited at the bottom of the stairs with a much more somber expression than Doyle hoped to see from someone about to tell him his future. The Host pulled Doyle toward the bar as he spoke close to his ear. "Alright, little buddy, it's time you and me had a private chat. You _are_ aware that you're supposed to be dead, right?"

"Thanks for being so delicate about it." Doyle replied wryly. "As a matter of fact, I am aware. What? You're not happy to see me?"

"You know I am. Over the moon, really." The Host assured him. "But, I don't have to tell _you_ how unusual it is for a future as crystal clear as yours to suddenly become… well, murky, for lack of a better description."

"By crystal clear, ya mean nonexistent." Doyle reminded him, nodding toward the bartender to order another drink. "You never mentioned I was gonna die. That coulda been useful information, y'know. I might've found a way to avoid it that _didn't_ involve a radical revision of our current timeline, which, in case ya don't already know, is exactly what happened."

"No, you wouldn't have avoided it." The Host confessed. "I didn't tell you, because there was simply no point. All roads ended in the same place for you, and telling you would've cheapened the pot, so to speak. But, hey, look at you now, Irish eyes—alive and kicking with a brand new future laid out in front of you, compliments of the higher powers themselves. Not to mention, a helluva looker on your arm. That Cordelia chick—wowza!"

"So why'd ya look like your eyes were gonna pop outta your head while I was up there?" Doyle wondered, gesturing toward the stage over his shoulder. "My Bono impression was spot on. I'm guessing that new future of mine's not exactly bright?"

"Supernova bright. I should've worn shades." The Host grumbled, rubbing his eyelids at the memory of what he'd seen. "You're lit up like the Fourth of July right now. With an aura like that, I can't make heads or tails of your future."

"Hadn't figured on that." Doyle noted, with more than a little relief creeping into his chest. "Maybe the Powers don't want me to know my future, yeah? They'd rather I focus on all these breadcrumbs they've left floating around in my head—focus on following 'em. Or avoiding 'em. Haven't figured out which."

"Wait a second, are you saying what I think you're saying?" The Host wondered, amazement flooding into his countenance. He shook his nearly empty glass, causing the ice to clank around. "Did one of those parcel posts from above get addressed to you instead of your pal Angel over there?"

"I'm saying I'm intimately acquainted with one version of the future, yeah." Doyle admitted. "Courtesy of a very special life-saving vision."

"No wonder I can't read you." The Host exclaimed. "You're in the driver's seat, kiddo. Judging by what I saw, you're not only undecided about which path to take—you haven't even gotten to the fork in the road yet. Until you do, it's all white noise." The Host wiggled his fingers by way of explanation. He turned his head back toward the stage, and his face lit up with excitement. "Oh, look who's up next!"

The familiar intro to Whitney Houston's _Greatest Love of All_ filled the room and Cordelia began belting her heart out into the microphone… without ever getting close to even one of the actual notes.

 _"_ _Everybody's searching for a hero. People need someone to look up to. I never found anyone who fulfilled my neeeeeds…"_

"Oh dear… well… I'm sure she has many _other_ talents." The Host remarked. "And her projection's great."

Doyle grimaced as she hit a particularly sour note. He was beginning to think that karaoke was a rather poor idea, considering that half the party was tone deaf. "Please tell me her future looks better than it sounds."

"Tsk, tsk… now Doyle, you know I don't go around blabbing about other people's futures. But, I will say, hers will be a lot brighter with you in it, and vice versa. So, do me a favor. Don't screw it up." The Host pleaded, before turning to the bar to shake his empty glass at the bartender. "Ramon, would you be a doll and pour me another Sea Breeze?"

As Doyle watched Cordelia absolutely murder the musical stylings of Whitney Houston, he couldn't imagine a version of his future that wouldn't include her. And that was something he never wanted to do.


	3. Judgment, Pt 3

**"Judgment," Part III**

He trailed his lips up the side of her neck, gave a little bite, and was greeted with a throaty giggle, which would've encouraged him further had she not leaned away to pour more wine into each of their glasses that were sitting empty on the coffee table beside them.

"Do you hear that?" Cordelia asked, pouring carefully to avoid further stains on her precious living room carpet.

"I don't hear anything." Doyle replied, his eyes still focused on the bare skin he'd been nibbling on seconds earlier, eager to pick up where he'd left off.

She turned to him with a smile that could eclipse the sun, and pushed a now full glass of wine into his waiting hand. "Exactly! _Nothing_. No Wesley droning on about some hideous creature he found in a book; no Angel being deafeningly stealthy. Instead, they're out helping the demon from your vision protect some pregnant chick. And _we_ have the night off. Totally and completely alone… except for Dennis, but he doesn't count."

"I did notice that, yeah. The alone bit." Doyle chuckled, admiring the rather healthy portion of wine she'd just poured for him, and arching a skeptical brow in its direction. She wasn't generally the type to encourage his indulgence in alcohol, nor was she the type to partake in so much of it herself. But tonight she seemed to be in an overly generous mood; far be it for him to deter her. "I'm glad to see you're cutting loose, but I'm still on-call, y'know."

"It's a good thing you realized the demon was a good guy. If Angel had killed him, that would've been _so_ embarrassing." Cordelia enthused, completely ignoring what he'd just said about being on call. He could see the glimmer of intoxication in her eyes as she tilted her head at him adoringly. "Have I ever told you how good you are at your job, Doyle?"

"Ya usually go with obsessed, can't say you've ever mentioned that I'm _good_ at it." Doyle responded amicably, watching as she took another generous sip from her own wine glass. "Ah, maybe ya should slow it down there, Princess. Not saying I don't appreciate the celebratory mood, but if I'm gonna have my way with ya, I'd rather do it while you're sober enough to consent."

"Hello, Mr. Pot, meet Miss Kettle." She snorted, with only a mild hint of exasperation. "Do you want me to remind you how many drinks you had at the bar last night while you were supposed to be 'working'?"

"I'd really rather ya didn't." He admitted, placing his full wine glass back down untouched, as he reflected on the massive hangover he'd started the day with.

"I'm just a little tipsy." She assured him with a coy smile. She slinked closer to him on the couch, balancing her glass of wine precariously. "And I _totally_ consent."

"Ah, you do, d'ya? Consent to what exactly?" He asked, helping her balance herself, so she and her wine wouldn't go tumbling off the couch. Admittedly, he thought her drunken seduction techniques were rather adorable, and didn't happen nearly often enough.

"Use your imagination, Doyle." She teased.

"Well, let's see, we could rehearse that scene for your acting class again—start with a little role-playing and see where it leads. Although, I'm hoping ya won't feel compelled to slap me around like last time… Hey, wait. What night is it?" He asked as a thought suddenly dawned on him. "Aren't ya supposed to be in your acting class right now?"

"I skipped it." She said with a shrug, taking another quick sip of her wine before abandoning her half-full glass on the coffee table beside his completely full one. "I decided this was more important."

She had moved so close to him, that she was practically sitting in his lap and her eyes and fingers had darted to the buttons on his shirt, signaling that she was ready for phase two of the night's activities, which didn't include much in the way of talking. "You, me. Alone… _finally_."

Her lips grazed his teasingly, but didn't land there, which allowed him to respond in a huskier voice than he had anticipated. "Your decision to make, love. And, for the record, I'm really glad ya made it." He mumbled, quickly becoming mesmerized by her nearness.

As her lips finally found their way to his, he encouraged her to climb the rest of the way onto his lap, which she did eagerly. His hands were in her hair, and hers were clawing at his clothes, and it was only moments later he was scooping her up and flipping her onto her back, grinding her into the couch cushions as they made out feverishly. His shirt had been tossed on the floor and hers was next on the agenda—

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._

Doyle's lips lifted an inch away from Cordelia's, but she wasn't so easily dissuaded, keeping her hands wrapped around his head in an attempt to draw his mouth back down toward her own. "Keep kissing me." She mumbled demandingly, giving the side of his jaw a sexy nibble.

"Did ya hear that?" Doyle wondered, wrinkling his brow and wondering if there was, in fact, anything to hear after all. He was intoxicated enough by Cordelia's kisses that he was willing to believe there'd been nothing.

"It's the neighbor's door." She insisted.

But the moment he started to pick up where he'd left off—

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._

They both froze in place this time, looking up at the front door with equal parts annoyance and bewilderment.

"They couldn't possibly be done already." Cordelia grumbled from underneath him, her lips were swollen and red from all the kissing and she was breathing heavily. "I thought finding the Tribunal would take all night."

"It's not them." Doyle answered, sensing that whoever stood on the opposite side of that door was neither vampire, nor familiar; and ignoring the fact that he shouldn't be able to do such a thing. He sighed heavily, lifting his body off Cordelia's, snatching his shirt from the floor and moving closer to the front door of the apartment. "Who's there?" He hollered, as he hastily threw his shirt back on.

"Gunn." Came the dull response through the thick wood.

Cordelia stood up from the couch and began hastily re-buttoning her blouse. "Someone with a gun?" She asked with alarm. "Should I call the police?"

"Angel sent me." The voice on the other side of the door added, sensing the hesitation from within the apartment.

"Someone _named_ Gunn. Two Ns." Doyle cheated a glance at Cordelia to make sure she was decent and gestured to her blouse. "Missed a button." He said helpfully, before turning to the front door and opening it halfway. "Gunn is it?" Doyle asked in greeting, his disappointment at being interrupted giving way to genuine curiosity about the tall dark-skinned man standing before him to whom he'd yet to be properly introduced. "Angel's told us a lot about ya."

"I remember you." Gunn stated evenly, moving into the apartment to take in the place. He glanced over at Cordelia who had fixed her blouse and was now smoothing down her mussed hair. "Her, too. Ya'll were there the night Angel ran those vamps outta my 'hood."

"And you came all this way to thank us?" Cordelia wondered with a saccharine smile. "You really shouldn't have."

"I also saw you in the hospital. My crew guarded the place while you were out of commission." Gunn continued, turning his back on the two of them to check out the rest of the cluttered apartment, giving special note to the whiteboard, before spinning back to face them. "Glad you're not dead, bro."

"Ah… yeah, me too." Doyle agreed, closing the door and promptly realizing his belt buckle was undone. He secured the belt through its loop, and saw that the action wasn't lost on Gunn. The new arrival glanced at the wine glasses on the coffee table and came to a swift and accurate conclusion as to what he'd just walked in on.

"Angel sent me 'cause ya'll weren't answering the phone." Gunn explained. "He's out fighting for his life in some demon Tribunal and you two are getting some action. That typically how it goes 'round here?"

"Listen, bud, if Angel had called, I woulda answered." Doyle insisted more than a little defensively. "The phone hasn't rang all night."

Even as he defended himself, Doyle had a sinking feeling. He slowly turned toward his girlfriend who was smiling back at him cutely, and looking utterly guilty as charged. Suddenly her all-too-generous wine-pouring was making a lot more sense. "Okay, so I _may_ have unplugged it." She admitted. "But, Angel wasn't supposed to be fighting tonight. He was just looking, right? That Prio Motu guy is the one who should be fighting."

"I'm guessing this Prio Motu guy is a big, ugly demon, right?" Gunn guessed. "Heavy on the ugly."

"That's the one." Doyle confirmed, still frowning in Cordelia's direction. He should've known she was up to something, pushing all that wine on him. She never did that. In fact, she generally did the opposite. The fact that he'd missed the giant red flag—or rather, had willfully ignored it—made him at least partly responsible.

"Yeah… he's dead." Gunn said bluntly. "Angel's taking his place."

"Oh, that's not good." Cordelia realized, dropping her cutesy act and promptly joining Doyle on the concerned train.

"Tell me Angel hasn't found the Tribunal yet." Doyle hoped.

"He didn't have to find it." Gunn said matter-of-factly. "It found him. Actually, it found that pregnant lady. Good thing he was with her. My truck's out front, I can take you there."

"What about Wesley? Did ya see him?" Doyle asked, grabbing his beat up leather jacket and slipping his arms into the sleeves.

"English?" Gunn asked. "Yeah, he was there. Angel sent him to some magic shop—said something about a contingency plan, if Angel loses the fight. And in case it wasn't clear, losing means dying."

"Let's go." Doyle said anxiously, heading toward the door and then stopping short as he sensed Cordelia moving along with them. "Ya don't have to come along, darlin'. Unlike me, _you_ were actually promised the night off."

"I know, but _you_ have to go. Angel needs you and you need me, that's how this works." She said earnestly. "Plus, I'm already missing my acting class. I might as well do something useful."

With that she marched past him with her chin held high and proceeded out the front door to Gunn's awaiting truck.

"She's drunk, isn't she?" Gunn asked as he followed her out.

"Little bit." Doyle replied, following them both and closing the door behind him.

* * *

Doyle drove up the long, winding path to the Federal Penitentiary, which currently counted one vampire slayer as part of its general population. It was too bad Doyle had a vampire in the car beside him, otherwise it'd be a lovely day to drive around with the top down. As it was, Angel remained huddled under his heavy dark coat in the passenger seat, avoiding the stray streams of light that permeated the windshield and passenger side window.

"I noticed ya took the whiteboard down." Doyle mentioned offhandedly, having watched Angel do exactly that after winning the prior night's Tribunal. It was the exact opposite of what Doyle had expected, considering the set-em-up and knock-em-down philosophy they'd been living by for the past few months.

"It's not a race." Angel answered simply, from beneath the layer of cloth. "I let myself forget that and it almost cost me. I almost _lost_ last night."

"I'm awfully glad ya didn't. I'd be out of a job, for one thing." Doyle joked, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. "But, ah…being that focused on the finish line—makes it a little too easy to lose sight o' how to get there, yeah?"

"That's when mistakes get made." Angel agreed, shifting from underneath the coat as Doyle pulled into the prison parking lot, and proceeded toward the section enveloped in shade. "You've been trying to tell me that for months, I just wasn't listening."

"I think we all got caught up in the excitement of the big cosmic reward." Doyle said diplomatically as he stopped the car a few feet from the front entrance of the prison, leaving a clear, shady path for Angel to travel from the vehicle to the building without going up in flames. "All of us are willing participants in this fight, man. Or, mostly-willing in Cordy's case."

"The score-keeping has to stop." Angel clarified. "We keep fighting, one battle at a time, as they come to us."

"Leaving the score-keeping to the pros, then?" Doyle guessed, turning off the ignition and half turning to his passenger. "Sounds like there's potential for getting a night off one of these days."

Angel made no move to leave the car yet, nodding along with what Doyle had just said. "Cordelia's right—I've been working you all too hard. And you've all gone along with it, but… it's not fair. You have human lives to live; you should be living them."

"She told ya she unplugged the phone last night, didn't she?" Doyle guessed, with a small chuckle.

"She felt really bad about it." Angel replied, flashing a miniscule grin of his own. "Promised she'd work on replacing your broken cell phone."

Angel finally leaned forward and opened the door to exit the car. He paused to look questioningly at Doyle who hadn't move. "Aren't you coming?"

"You go on ahead, man. I'd better park somewhere legal, just in case they're sticklers about that sorta thing." Doyle said, leaning back in his seat and resting his arm on the back of the opposite one. Truthfully, he wanted Angel to have a few minutes alone with Faith. The two of them needed each other far more than they needed Doyle tagging along.

Angel shook his head in agreement, and shut the car door behind him as he proceeded toward the prison entrance, leaving Doyle alone in the parking lot with a rapidly forming grin. It always made his job that much easier when Angel came to epiphanies on his own; like, for instance, realizing that each soul mattered just as much now as it had when they'd first started. Doyle had been hinting as much for weeks, waiting for Angel to come down from his Shanshu-high and see the forest for the trees again. Thankfully, it hadn't cost Angel more than some rather exhausted—and in Cordelia's case, cranky—employees.

Now it was back to the mission statement—helping the hopeless; saving one soul at a time. It would be a long road ahead, but so far, Doyle felt confident that they were on the right path. He didn't need to see the future to know that. They were headed toward that distant finish line where redemption surely waited.

* * *

 **A/N- Just a quick note to say thank you for reading so far. And for the reviews, which are ever so fun for ME to read. ;)**

 **Regarding the question of where Doyle will choose to go once he hits that proverbial fork in the road (or where that fork is, for that matter)... well, that's really *the* question, isn't it? For Doyle as well as us. That's going to be a big part of this story, so I don't want to give anything away. But I promise, it won't take too long for that issue to be addressed.**

 **Also, as you've probably guessed, this story will be updated fairly regularly, but it's also really, REALLY long, so it's going to take a while to get to the end no matter how often I post chapters. Hope you will all be patient and stick with me to the very end!**


	4. Are You Now Or Have You Ever Been?

**"Are You Now or Have You Ever Been?"**

Doyle gave a long whistle as he took in the expansive lobby of the historic hotel. It'd been abandoned for decades, and it showed. Layers of dust covered the surfaces, dulling what was probably a rather vibrant room in the hotel's heyday. White shrouds covered the furniture, adding to its currently ghostly appearance.

Just pulling up to the place had made the hairs on the back of Doyle's neck stand on end. It felt wrong. It felt haunted. Walking into the lobby had just about made his stomach drop through the floor as he experienced a rather overpowering feeling of Déjà vu.

He had seen it all before. This place existed in a memory that had never even happened.

"What do you think?" Angel asked. He stood beside Doyle with his hands in his pockets, staring admiringly up at the ornate chandelier that adorned the center of the ceiling. To some it might look fancy, but to Doyle it looked foreboding. Hovering there, ready to drop.

So much had happened here—and yet, _didn't_ actually happen. Not here, not yet. So much _would_ happen here. That was probable. Doyle had seen this place in his vision of the future. He had seen the name scrawled on the pages of his mind.

The Hyperion Hotel.

"Well… it's _old_." Doyle observed, wishing he could run away and never look back. "And it smells kinda funny."

"68 rooms. Fully furnished." Angel responded with his typical understated enthusiasm. "There's even a pool downstairs."

"Yeah, musta been something back in its day." Doyle noted. "Why the sudden interest in this old relic?"

Angel stepped further into the room, still scanning the surroundings. "Because it's been housing a Thesulac demon for the last seventy years… and because I think it might be a good location for our new office."

Dammit. It was happening. This was really happening.

"Ah… so maybe that foul odor is potential. It's been a while, I may have forgotten what it smells like." Doyle clung to humor to diffuse his rapidly fraying nerves, taking another sweep of the place with his eyes. "But, can we rewind to the part where there's a Thesulac demon living here? Y'know what those things are capable of, man? Pure insanity of the homicidal and suicidal variety. I've heard Charlie Manson had a Thesulac working with him."

"He didn't." Angel responded offhandedly. "Some rumors are just rumors, Doyle. Manson was plenty evil all on his own."

"Oh yeah? And how do y'know? Don't tell me ya fell in with that crowd?" Doyle asked anxiously, from his place by the front door. He wasn't eager to go any further inside, and it had nothing to do with the paranoia demon lurking within. Walking into this place, accepting this place as their new home—it would be accepting the future he'd seen in his vision. It would be ushering it around the bend.

"Not me personally." Angel clarified, finally circling back toward Doyle and giving him a little shrug. "I knew a guy."

Doyle folded his arms, standing steadfast and trying not to let his nerves get the best of him. It was just a building. It didn't mean anything on its own. As big a signpost as it was, it was just that, a signpost. "Fine, but I'm guessing you're acquainted with the demon that lives here, am I right? This isn't purely an interest in real estate."

"I was here back in the fifties. I walked away, let it take the place." Angel admitted. "Now I want to take it back."

"The road to redemption never does run straight." Doyle observed. Angel turned away from him again, running his hand over a large circular lump in the center of the lobby. "Okay, I get why you'd wanna clean up an old mess. Only problem is—ya can't kill the demon unless it's corporeal and it needs to feed in order to get that way, yeah? I think we can both agree, as desperate as we are for a new office space, human sacrifice is outta the question."

Angel didn't look bothered by that information, pointing instead toward the fuse box. "I wonder if we can get the power on in here—we'll need that. And we'll need to call the others, get them to meet us."

"Woah! Did ya hear me, man?! Bringing people in here is a bad idea—we can't feed that thing." Doyle reminded him, getting more than a little bit agitated at the nonchalant vibe he was getting from Angel. "Is it talking to you right now? Is it telling you to bring the others here? Ya gotta fight it, man!"

Doyle's stomach did a flip-flop as Angel merely chuckled in response and raised a brow in his friend's direction. "No, it's not talking to me. But I'm pretty sure it's talking to you. Ignore it, okay?" Angel calmly crossed back to where Doyle was waiting by the front door. "I don't want to feed it, Doyle. I want to raise it, and then I want to _kill_ it."

"Ah… well, that's okay, I guess." Doyle replied with a partially relieved sigh. "But still… ya really wanna turn this into our new base of operations? It's been a hotbed of evil for close to a century. Not to mention, it gives me the heeby jeebies."

That was an understatement if ever there was one.

"That's just the demon talking." Angel assured him, patting Doyle on the shoulder and heading toward the exit. "I think Cordelia will like it. Don't you?"

"She'd like anywhere that isn't her living room." Doyle countered, taking one last worried glance over his shoulder at the road that was rapidly rising to meet him. He clearly wasn't going to be able to talk Angel out of the place, and he wasn't even sure that he wanted to do such a thing. It did have a certain charm about it, and they needed to move somewhere—why not here? As quickly as the fear had risen up at the first sight of the Hyperion, it swiftly began to recede. Maybe it was just the demon talking to him after all.

Angel paused before opening the door and stepping out into the warm L.A. night. "Hey, do you know where we can get an Orb of Ramjerin? For the raising ritual."

"Pretty sure there's one on my bookshelf at home." Doyle mused, following Angel outside. "Makes for a great paperweight… Y'know, I think it could probably use a few throw pillows as well."


	5. First Impressions, Pt 1

**"First Impressions," Part I**

Doyle dropped the heavy box at his feet and let out a long breath. "That's it. That's the last one."

"Are you sure?" Wesley asked, stepping over the piles of books on the floor to inspect the box Doyle had just set down behind the hotel's reception area. "We're still missing quite a few of the Abarynnian texts, not to mention all the Watcher's journals and—"

"Maybe I should clarify." Doyle interrupted to stop the other man from itemizing all the heavy books that had been packed into numerous boxes and were now sitting outside the Hyperion Hotel in a rented U-Haul. "That's the last one I'm bringing in today. My back is killin' me, man."

Wesley frowned as he pushed his glasses higher on his nose; he opened the box and sifted through the books contained inside. "Yes, of course. This is plenty for me to organize for now. I'll have Angel grab the rest when he wakes up."

Doyle snorted in reply and sauntered away, leaving Wesley to continue his obsessive unpacking and categorizing—something he seemed to enjoy more than any person should enjoy such humdrum things. Although, Doyle also suspected it was an excuse to avoid most of the heavy lifting.

Rubbing his aching back as he crossed the lobby, Doyle found Cordelia on the first landing of the grandiose staircase, superficially dusting the banister. Her lengthy ponytail bobbed up and down as she dabbed the feather duster at various points on the shiny wood, doing nothing substantial, but looking extremely good while doing it. He stood back admiring her work. And kept admiring it. Oh yeah, there was a lot to admire…

"Doyle, are you just gonna stand there checking out my butt all day or are you gonna offer to help me?" She demanded, whirling around to face him and setting one hand on her hip in a sassy pose. He didn't bother pointing out how he'd been helping all morning—he was so helpful that he'd probably pulled something in his lower back. As much as he liked getting credit where credit was due, he also liked having his buttons pushed by one, Cordelia Chase. And pushing those buttons right back.

"I'm thinking I'll stick to that first part, if it's all the same to you." He cracked.

He watched her blow a stray piece of hair out of her face in exaggerated frustration, mostly ignoring his attempt to be humorous. "I swear, I've never seen this much dust in my life. It would take an army of dust-busters to put a dent in it. We should just accept that dust-bunnies are part of the décor."

"The place looks great, darlin'. You've really outdone yourself." Doyle assured her, gesturing to the squeaky-clean lobby floor, and the multiple plush chairs and sofas that had been uncovered, revealing a colorful array of seating options for clients and employees alike. Despite what it may or may not mean in terms of the future, Doyle did rather like the place now that the paranoia demon had been evicted. Sure, there was a bit of a creepy vibe, but that suited their undead boss, not to mention, their line of work. And the amount of space the hotel afforded them more than made up for anything that may go bump in the night.

Speaking of going bump in the night…

Doyle smiled impishly up at Cordelia from the very bottom of the stairs. "Now that it's all fixed up good and proper, there'll be no more late night research sessions in your living room. No more chests full of weapons instead o' shoes. No more Wesley eating all your non-fat fro-yo. And, most importantly, you and I might finally be able to spend a night alone together without interruption."

"Privacy." Cordelia murmured, casting her gaze skyward with a dreamy smile. "It's been so long, I think I've forgotten what that feels like. You'll have to remind me—what does one do with privacy?"

"Oh, lots o' things… many of which require way less clothes than you're currently wearing." Doyle flirted, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "In fact, it's a big hotel, yeah? I'm thinking there's some privacy could be had right here."

"There is, isn't there?" Cordelia responded, stepping down the few steps she'd climbed to stand directly in front of Doyle. "A hotel with multiple rooms… all of which have running water. I could really use a shower after all this hard work." She abruptly thrust the duster outward into his hand. "Don't forget to dust the baseboards, mmkay?"

Doyle took the duster and squinted down at it in confusion, and then looked back up at Cordelia to see if she was joking. He suspected she was, which is why he tossed the undesirable object on the floor, next to an array of other cleaning products, and focused on the desirable object standing before him. "Ah… I didn't mean ya should have that privacy all alone. What's say we explore the place together? Test out a few rooms, pick one that's right for yours truly."

"Oh, yeah?" She asked quizzically, folding her arms over her chest. "I thought you said this place was creepy. Now you wanna live here? Let me guess, you think you won't have to pay rent."

"That may have crossed my mind, yeah." Doyle admitted with a dry chuckle and a bob of his head.

Cordelia gave Doyle a patronizing pat on the chest. "I think you're not taking into account how cheap Angel is—best friend or not, he'll totally make you pay rent."

"You're in charge of the books, darlin'." He pointed out.

"Fine." She conceded. "Then, _I'll_ make you pay rent."

Doyle rolled his eyes, knowing better to argue the point. "Well, that's still better than paying rent on an apartment I haven't slept in for months. Ya didn't see me charging Angel for staying there, did ya?" He reminded her. "Anyway, I've been looking to get rid of that ol' place for a while now, I was just waiting for Angel to find other accommodations. Now that he's living here, I figure I might as well do the same. Not to mention, it'd be a much better commute."

Cordelia looked pensive for a moment, an unspoken thought crossing her mind, but never migrating to her lips. Instead, she moved closer to Doyle, sliding her arms around his waist and batting her eyelashes at him, catching his flirtatious vibe from seconds earlier. "So, when you say we should test out a few rooms…?"

He answered by kissing her just long enough to leave her wanting more. When he pulled away, he kept his lips close enough to tease. Her eyes twinkled mischievously back at him as she turned abruptly and sprinted up the stairs, turning back only to make sure he was hot on her heels, which he most certainly was. He goosed her and she squealed in delight as they continued their mad dash up the stairs, disappearing down the hallway on the second floor.

From below, Wesley rolled his eyes as he continued to pull stacks of books from the boxes piled around the reception area, muttering under his breath. "That was an awfully quick recovery."

At least it was a big place, and he didn't have any supernatural senses that would clue him in to his co-workers' sexcapades. From that standpoint, this new office space was a giant leap up from their previous office, not to mention Cordelia's apartment. They thought they had it rough because they were never alone, but Wesley was usually the one accidentally walking in on things he'd rather not be walking in on. This was better.

Even so, Wesley flipped on the radio to the local classical music station. Just in case they got too carried away.

* * *

It was much later in the afternoon when Cordelia and Doyle reemerged from the upper levels of the hotel, fingers intertwined tightly together, both wearing smiles as wide as their faces would allow. Room-hunting for Doyle had turned out to be an extremely satisfying mission for both of them. In the end, they'd "tested" at least one room on each floor, and agreed the perfect one was at the westernmost side of the top floor—perfect for those who enjoyed watching the sunset rather than sunrise. It also allowed for easy access to the roof, something that Doyle was particularly fond of, despite having a modest balcony. Room 505 would do nicely, and was plenty big enough to fit all his furniture, should he decide to actually keep any of that old junk, which he probably wouldn't since the room was already fully furnished. It had a nice big bed, for that matter, with an impressively firm mattress.

As they cheerfully descended the stairs hand-in-hand, they immediately saw that they had company. Gunn was standing in the middle of the lobby looking none-too-pleased to be talking to Wesley rather than a certain vampire who ran the joint. Doyle pulled Cordelia nearer and whispered close to her ear. "Remember to be nice—we want him to stick around."

"I'm always nice, Doyle." She whispered back with a saccharine smile, reaching over to pat him on the cheek reassuringly. Cordelia could be described as "always" a great many things; she was always truthful, always tenacious and always able to brighten up a room, but "always nice" was a bit of a stretch. He turned away from her, and instead focused on the heated discussion taking place between the other two occupants of the lobby.

"I know I said four o'clock." Gunn insisted, motioning with his shoulders for emphasis.

"You had an appointment?" Wesley asked curiously, appearing slightly flummoxed by Gunn's off-putting manner. Standing next to Gunn succeeded in making Wesley appear ever more English and uptight—a feat Doyle didn't think was possible before now.

"Yeah, he promised to help me get a lead on Deevak—a demon that put some of my guys in the hospital this week." Gunn explained, with more than a hint of annoyance. "Yo, he owes me. Angel calls and I come running, but I ask him for one favor and the guy sleeps the day away."

As Doyle and Cordelia made it close enough to join the conversation, Cordelia responded in her usual blunt way. "He's not a guy. He's a vampire. They tend to sleep the day away. Kinda their thing." Belatedly she remembered what Doyle had said on their way down the staircase, therefore, she plastered a fake smile on her face. "I mean that in a nice way."

Gunn turned to face the two new arrivals, sizing them up just as indifferently as the first time. "Well, if it ain't the Wonder Twins, finally come to join the party. Lemme guess, you two are also in the habit of spending all day in bed."

"Hey, man. That's just not right—the Wonder Twins, they were siblings, yeah?" Doyle objected.

" _Ew_ and also, too geeky for me to get the reference _._ " Cordelia added. "Anyway, we weren't _in_ bed… well, not until the very end, and that wasn't _in_ so much as _on_. Before that it was strictly tables, countertops and shower stalls. Oh, and one window sill."

Three sets of horrified, mortified and amused eyes, respectively, landed on Cordelia who breezily waved them off. Doyle, the owner of the amused eyes, collected himself and turned back to Gunn, barely controlling the smirk that quivered at the edge of his lips. He wasn't the sort to kiss and tell, but, hey, if _she_ wanted to… "Is there something we can do for ya?"

Gunn shook his head, trying to clear away the mental imagery Cordelia had just provided. "Yeah, you're Angel's sidekick. Why don't you go up there and knock on his coffin."

"Hey, bud. I'll have ya know that I'm way more than a sidekick." Doyle sputtered, trying not to be offended by Gunn's dismissive words. "In fact, I'm not a sidekick at all. I'm a messenger—chosen by the Powers That Be to assist the vampire with a soul on his mission to rid the world of evil."

Doyle glared at Gunn, trying to bite his tongue before he said anything less _nice_. He knew Gunn was going to be an important member of the team someday… as soon as he stopped being so damn annoying. Doyle reminded himself to be patient; once upon a time Wesley was annoying, too.

"Which rather eloquently describes a sidekick." Wesley mused.

Okay, so Wesley was still annoying.

"Note to rude-guy, Angel doesn't sleep in a coffin—he hates when people stereotype him like that." Cordelia jumped in. "Haven't you ever heard the phrase 'let a sleeping vampire lie?' He'll rise on his own. He always does." She moved away from the group to collect the discarded cleaning supplies and move them out of sight, calling over her shoulder before disappearing into the back storage closet. "Feel free to bring in some boxes while you wait."

Just then, the front lobby doors swung open, revealing a short, stocky man decked out in full superhero garb. Skintight body suit, flowing cape and a sword that looked like it was made of plastic—probably because it was.

"Demons of the underworld beware—your time on the surface is drawing nigh!"

Gunn's jaw dropped open as he took in the sight of the odd, new arrival. While Doyle did his best not to laugh in the smaller man's face. Instead, he greeted their guest with an amiable chuckle, shifting his weight so he could fold his arms across his chest. "Hey, Dave. It's been a while. How've ya been?"

"I got here as quick as I could!" David Nabbit replied earnestly, swinging the plastic sword through the air.

Cordelia returned from the back room, her arms now unburdened by the cleaning supplies. She smiled pleasantly at the peculiarly dressed man in their doorway, completely unfazed by his appearance. "David, I paged you two days ago! Let me guess, you were in the middle of another epic Dungeons and Dragons battle?"

"I wish." Nabbit replied, lowering the sword and stepping further into the hotel lobby. "More like a hostile takeover in Kuala Lampur."

"Business is good then?" Doyle inquired raising his brows with interest and silently praying this conversation wouldn't result in another unwanted invitation to the Dungeon Master's lair—sitting through a six hour battle against fake demons was far more painful than any real demons Doyle had ever faced. Especially, because it had included wearing a stupid hat—complete with little plastic Viking horns! He'd suffered through the experience once out of pity, but he couldn't imagine making that kind of sacrifice a second time.

"Another million here. Another million there. You know how it is." Nabbit replied nonchalantly. "So where's the big guy? He need me to help track down a demon? Save the world from certain doom?"

"Who's this dude?" Gunn interjected as an aside, flashing Doyle and Wesley a puzzled look. "He for real?"

"Actually, we just need some financial advice." Cordelia clarified, rejoining the group in the center of the room. "I know a thing or two about both _having_ and _spending_ money—but I'm a little less savvy when it comes to long term investments. Think you can help?"

Nabbit breathed an audible sigh of relief, slipping his plastic sword into his belt loop. "Yeah. Okay, that's better." He admitted, with a bashful grin.

"Sorry I'm late." Angel's voice cut through the crowd, causing all eyes to jointly land on the vampire as he descended the last few steps and made his way across the lobby to join them. Despite the fact that it was after four o'clock and Angel had been sleeping the entire day without interruption, Doyle couldn't help but notice he didn't look nearly as well-rested as he should. Quite the opposite, in fact. Add to that the fact that Angel had slept most of the prior day as well and a niggling feeling of dread pushed its way into Doyle's brain, reminding him of those cosmic signposts he'd been looking out for. Living in a creepy hotel? Check. Angel spending far too much time in bed? Check and mate.

The signs seemed to be coming faster than he'd expected–indicating the future from his vision was not only on the horizon, but, in fact, rapidly approaching. Which meant Doyle would probably have to make a choice soon...

"I like the new place, good sir." Nabbit enthused as Angel approached. He gestured to the expansive lobby. "Does this mean you're changing your business model?"

"No, we still fight evil." Angel said blankly. "We have a six-month lease with an option to buy, but not enough for a down payment. Any way we can work around that?"

"Sure, lots of ways with a place like this." Nabbit replied enthusiastically. "You could make a play for a preservation grant, for one. Or, if you're not big on restoring the place, you could apply for an FHA and get a PMI in lieu of a down payment." Nabbit paused, staring back at a sea of blank expressions. "Right… I'll just have my money guys work up some numbers for you. No problem."

"That'd be great, man." Doyle said thankfully, reaching out to give Nabbit a friendly pat on the shoulder. "We knew you were the right guy to call."

"And if you're looking to unload any more money on a struggling business, don't be afraid to give _us_ a call." Cordelia added hopefully. Doyle shot her a cautioning glance and she amended her statement slightly. "…if you have a case or something."

Nabbit whipped out his plastic sword and raised it dramatically. "Demons know better than to mess with me!" With that, he pranced faux-gallantly back toward the front door. "To the Nabbit-mobile. Away!"

"Seriously… ya'll don't actually let that guy fight anything, do you?" Gunn clarified, his eyes lingering on the recently exited front doors.

Angel pulled his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Doyle who reflexively caught them without missing a beat. "Bring the car around back, we need to get moving on this Deevak thing. Wesley, grab some cash out of the tin in the back—we may need some bribe money for the snitch."

"Hey, hey, wait a minute." Gunn interrupted, whirling toward the vampire who was rapidly handing out the marching orders. "I said I needed _your_ help, man. As in, _just_ _you_ for some added muscle. Quick and dirty. We don't need to bring the entire United Kingdom over here. We're already late and these two will only slow us up."

"I'm quicker than I look, bud." Doyle quipped, tossing the keys from one hand to the other and nodding to Cordelia to follow him out to the car.

"Only when he needs to be." Cordelia clarified as she hurriedly followed in Doyle's footsteps. "Not all the time."

Doyle chuckled as he led the way out of the building, imagining the look of discomfort that had probably crept onto the faces of those within earshot of her comment.

As Cordelia and Doyle exited, and Wesley disappeared into the back office to get the money, Gunn grumbled at Angel. "Hold up. Don't tell me stick-figure Barbie is coming, too? What's she gonna do, talk the demon to death?"

Angel shook his head dismissively—the days of trying to convince Cordelia to stay behind were long behind them. Despite her multitude of verbal complaints, she was a team player; and as a team player, she did more than just file paperwork and send invoices. Although, she did excel at that last part. She was also great for crowd control, getting civilians to safety and quick with the first aid, which was, perhaps, her strongest argument for always joining them in a fight. Even if Angel didn't need the medical attention, Doyle and Wesley were generally not as lucky.

"Listen, if this Deevak guys is as dangerous as you say, then we'll need the entire team." Angel responded curtly. "They know how to handle themselves. Now, let's get to work."

" _Get_ to work? I've been working since dawn, bro." Gunn shot back, begrudgingly following Angel to the back door.


	6. First Impressions, Pt 2

**"First Impressions," Part II**

The front door to Cordelia's apartment flew open well before Cordelia had so much as reached into her purse, to find her keys.

"Thanks, Dennis." She called into the air, as she crossed the threshold and immediately kicked off her shoes. "I don't know about Gunn." She remarked to the weary man who'd entered behind her, closing the door securely in his wake. "He's a little too Rambo to be a team player, don't you think?"

"Give him time, love." Doyle said, yanking off his beat up leather jacket and tossing it lazily on the doorknob of the coat closet. "He's just used to being in charge, that's all—doing things his own way is the only way he knows."

"Well, his way seems to get a lot of people killed." Cordelia snorted, trudging her way across the carpet to throw herself exhaustedly down on the couch cushions. "It doesn't even seem like it bothers him."

"It bothers him." Doyle assured her, as he moved at a much slower pace. "He wouldn't be asking for Angel's help if it didn't. When you're fighting a war, soldiers die. He's hadda learn that the hard way. Hence, the uh… winning personality."

He rubbed at his aching shoulder that had been twisted during the night's melee. Cordelia saw his grimace and patted the cushion beside her on the couch. "Looks like someone's in need of some TLC. Good thing that's my specialty."

"Not gonna disagree with ya there." He responded, making his way across the room and readily plopping down on the couch beside her, turning so she had full access to his back and shoulders. She began digging her fingers into his tense flesh, kneading out the knots that had already formed. "Ah… I dunno what I'd do without those magic fingers of yours, darlin'."

"That one vamp really got you good, huh?" She noted, as she continued applying pressure to his aching muscles. "You know what you should have done?"

"Ducked." He grunted, as she dug her knuckles in extra deep along his spinal column.

"You should've used the demon, Doyle." She admonished him lightly. "You wouldn't be in pain right now if you'd had your super-bendy joints during the fight. And, considering what a poor showing Angel put in tonight, you probably could've saved the other guys a few bruises as well."

Doyle closed his eyes and hung his head, trying to enjoy the massage without reflecting on how close they'd come to losing to a relatively small group of vampires that should've been fairly easy work. Nor did he wish to get into yet another heated discussion about his preference to remain human, no matter the situation. Cordelia was well-versed in how much he disliked calling on the demon; what she didn't know is how much closer to the surface it felt as of late.

He focused on the last part of her sentence, the part that felt safer because it took the focus off him. "Angel did seem a bit off his game, yeah?"

"Understatement much?" She huffed, putting some of her obvious frustration into the massage. "I mean, he slept the entire day, which maybe wouldn't be so weird if we had worked last night, but we didn't. Is he sick? Do vampires get sick? Because, _something's_ not right if he willingly lent us his car."

"I don't think he's sick." Doyle responded, as a sinking feeling came over him. This topic, he had quickly realized, wasn't any safer.

"Oh no! I just thought of something!" She exclaimed worriedly. "Last time he had trouble sleeping, that Penn guy was sharing dreams with him. Remember? You don't think another one of his vampire children have come to play, do you? What if it's Spike?"

Doyle's back was still turned away from her, so she couldn't see his expression, which was one of quiet awe. Without knowing it, Cordelia had very nearly hit the nail on the head—she saw what Doyle surely wouldn't have seen if he hadn't already been looking for it. "Well, ah… didn't ya say something about Spike being in Sunnydale these days?" He hedged, trying to redirect her train of thought, while he wrestled with the desire to confess all his fears to her about what was to come.

"Yeah, last I checked." Cordelia replied thoughtfully. "Maybe I should call Willow again. Just to make sure Captain Peroxide hasn't taken any road trips lately."

"Mmm… That sounds like a good idea." Doyle said, patting her hand as it continued to dig into the taut muscles of his shoulder.

She went silent for a few moments as she continued to massage away all the tension in his upper back. Eventually, he felt the warmth of her lips as they landed on the side of his neck, signaling the end of her laboring over his muscles. Her arms slid from his shoulders downward across his chest, hugging him from behind. Then, she lifted her chin, planting it snugly on his shoulder blade and spoke quietly next to his ear. "What's wrong?"

"Huh? What d'ya mean?" He asked.

Doyle didn't know how he could be surprised by her perceptiveness at this point. Although, she often masked it with superficiality, Cordelia was by far the most insightful person he knew. And she was particularly adept at seeing right through him—she always knew when he was holding something back from her, which is why he usually didn't even try.

"I can tell you're worried about something—this kind of muscle tension isn't just from fighting demons and moving boxes. It's the kind that you cause yourself." She observed keenly.

"That's what gave me away?" He let out a wry chuckle, finally twisting out of her backwards hug so he could sink properly into the couch cushions. She released him so he could move, but remained close, attached to his hip.

Cordelia reached out and brushed a fingertip lightly across his forehead. "That… and this vein right here that pops out whenever you're in worry-mode." She leaned over and kissed the spot in question, giving him a playful smile. "I hope this isn't your poker face. It would explain a lot."

"Have I ever told ya what a great card player you'd make, love?" He joked in reply, taking her hand in his, and raising it to his lips to place a kiss in the middle of her palm. "You're right, there's something weighing heavy at the moment."

She settled against his side to listen, entwining her fingers between his. A pillar of support. "Notice my complete lack of surprise." She jibed him with affection.

"It's just… ah, well, it seems like some things from my vision of the future are starting to make sense now. More than just a few names here and there." He explained, shifting anxiously against the couch cushions. "I might have some tough choices to make real soon."

"You have to figure out how to change things." She guessed. "Assuming they don't change on their own—some things are bound to be different just because you're here, right? Look at me, for instance. I must be different, since I ended up with you instead of a rich guy."

Doyle's lips quirked into a smile as he nodded in agreement, lifting a hand to her cheek tenderly. The Cordelia he'd seen in his vision of the future did appear somewhat different from the one seated beside him—not better, or worse, just different. Maybe he was biased, but he liked this Cordelia better, due to the simple fact that she was _his_. Although, he had no doubt he would've loved any version of her in any timeline.

"Yeah, I suppose some things change naturally." He dropped his hand and his eyes followed, searching the floor beneath his feet. "To be honest, that's part of what worries me. There are things my being here _shouldn't_ change. And I'm afraid _not_ changing things will be a lot harder than actually changing 'em."

"What's so hard about that?" Cordelia wondered. "Hide behind your newspaper for a while—marvel at all the things that don't change. You already have a lot of practice doing that."

Under most circumstances, Doyle would have gladly chuckled at her joke at his expense. But, he was in no laughing mood at the moment. His eyes remained averted as he answered her question as ambiguously as possible. "Well, let's just say some of 'em are questionable."

"Questionable means bad." Cordelia interpreted bluntly. "Why would you let bad things happen?"

"Because, darlin', I don't wanna change the _good_ that could come out of the bad." He answered emphatically. "Pretty sure it's an all or nothing type o' deal."

She eyed him thoughtfully before pointing out what she must have thought was quite obvious. "Maybe stopping the bad things would lead to _different_ good things. Better things even. Not to mention the fact that no one would know anything was missing in the first place. It wouldn't even matter."

"I'd know." Doyle's words were laced with earnestness. "It'd matter to me. And I dunno if I could live with ruining it."

"Oh." She said, taken aback by his intense reply. "It's that good, huh?"

"Miraculous." He clarified, running an anxious hand through his hair. "That'd be a more accurate description."

Doyle looked up at her then and found a vaguely puzzled expression staring back at him, which was fair considering how vague and puzzling his description of possible events was even to his own ears.

"Miraculous sounds _really_ good." She ventured with a small shrug. "I mean, how bad is 'bad' anyway? Are we talking a _little_ bad, or your garden-variety medium bad? It can't be worse than that, if you're willing to let it happen. No one's gonna die, right?"

"Lord, I hope not." Doyle mumbled reflexively, more to himself than her.

"Good." Cordelia responded with a hint of relief in her voice. "Because you can't let anyone die."

"I'm not planning on it, but ya realize the instructions are vague at best." Doyle admitted in a slightly weary voice. "Whether I choose to act or sit idly by, either way, whatever happens will be on me. That's what seeing the future means—y'think I'd be used to it by now..."

"Hey, it's okay." She said soothingly, moving closer to him, so she could slip her arms around his chest and hug him close once again. "It's like I've told you before—you're good at your job, Doyle. That's why the Powers That Be and the other-me gave _you_ this responsibility. Because they knew you could handle it. They trust that you'll do the right thing—we all do."

Doyle lifted his hands to rub at his tired eyes, wishing he could have nearly as much faith in himself as she did. It was her faith that had kept him going this long—and it would continue to push him along the long and twisted path. "Well, you and Angel do, at any rate. Wesley still thinks I hold secret meetings with the higher powers just so I can lord it over his head that I know things he doesn't."

"You do enjoy lording things over Wesley." She joked quietly, her voice slightly distorted by the folds of his shirt close to her mouth. She shifted suddenly and moved backward so she could meet his eyes, ensuring she had his undivided attention. It also allowed him to see the sincerity etched across her face. "I know it's a burden, Doyle, but it doesn't have to be something you carry alone, I don't mind sharing it. You _can_ tell me everything, if you want to—if it would help."

And just like that, she gave him strength, as she so often did. As he stared back at her face, so open and honest, he could see that she meant it. These weren't just thoughts that became words—she was willing to act on them. It was tempting to take her up on the offer, and yet, sharing the burden with her, wouldn't exactly absolve him of any responsibility. If anything, it would only serve to increase it. The future was fragile—one wrong move, by any one of them could cost them everything. He trusted her, implicitly, but the weight of the future was never meant to be hers. It was never meant to be Angel's either. It was Doyle's, and Doyle's alone—for better or for worse. The Oracles had said as much, and Doyle understood why it had to be that way. Because Doyle himself had no future to be overwritten—he had no horse in the race. He could focus on the one future that mattered—Angel's future—and weed out all the rest. That is why Doyle was chosen for the job, and that is why he had to do it alone.

Well, not entirely alone. Even if Cordelia couldn't share the burden of knowledge, she could still help him bear it.

He lifted his hands to cup her lovely face, taking in the smooth, flawless beauty of her skin, the wide curve of her mouth and deep, dark pools of her eyes. His thumbs lightly caressed her cheeks as he spoke to her, overcome by the feelings she could stir up in him so easily, by saying so very little. "God, Cordy, I love you so damn much. Y'know that?"

She smiled back at him, leaning closer so that the tips of their noses connected. "I love you, too." She answered without hesitation. Words that had once been so difficult for her to say, now easily fell from her lips on a regular basis. And she meant them each and every time.

What followed was a long, sweet kiss that echoed the words they'd just spoken out loud. A tender urgency laced the kiss, as if each of them was equally desperate to let the other one know how much they meant to the other. Doyle's hands slid from her cheeks into her hair, and Cordelia's arms wound their way around his neck. Their hearts beat rapidly, falling into a matching rhythm, leading them further down the tunnel of desire they so often found themselves tumbling into.

Theirs was a very physical relationship, to be sure. The chemistry between them was combustible, and at times, it was hard to keep their hands to themselves. But it wasn't strictly the sparks that kept them coming back for more. They had frolicked playfully around the Hyperion earlier that afternoon for pleasure. What was happening now had very little to do with pleasure—this was raw emotion, spilling over, being poured into flesh. And it was much more intoxicating than what had transpired earlier. Much more fulfilling.

Doyle was fully wrapped up in her—the feel of her tongue in his mouth, her nails grazing his skin, her perfumed hair billowing around them. That's when he felt it. The silent alarm bell in his head that told him what was about to happen. He wrenched away from her almost violently, holding her at arm's length and bracing himself for impact. He was barely aware of the noise of objection she made as their contact was broken, because a vision slammed into him with all the gentleness of a Mack truck.

One picture after the next, each one crash-landing into his brain violently. What was worse—he recognized the man in the vision. He watched the guy be ripped apart limb from limb. He felt the pain, both inside and out. As the vision slowly subsided, Doyle let his body go slack and found that he was laying curled up on his side in Cordelia's lap. She had managed to keep him from rolling off the couch, and as he got his bearings he took another moment to simply lie there with his eyes clenched tightly shut, letting her fingers gently glide through his hair. "Shhhhh, it's okay." She whispered. "You're okay… The Powers That Be? Not so much. I'm definitely going to have to file a complaint about their epicly lousy timing."

He lifted a hand to his cheek to wipe away a stream of wetness—apparently, this vision had come with tears, which were spilling down his cheeks in thick rivulets. It wasn't the first time. He had no control over any reaction he had to a vision. For a few seconds, minutes, and on one occasion, hours, he experienced a complete loss of reality; and in its place was only pain in its purest, most undiluted form.

This time the pain had belonged to one, Charles Gunn.

Doyle sat up slowly, wiping his eyes with the balls of his hands and then running them through his hair. Cordelia kept a hand lightly on his shoulder, cocking her head at him with concern. "What did you see?" She wondered. That line was usually reserved for Angel, when he was around to utter it.

"It's Gunn." Doyle choked, trying to regain his composure, but having a little trouble considering the level of violence he'd just experienced. "It's bad."

"Oh, wow. Okay." Cordelia popped up off the couch and grabbed the phone from her countertop, dialing rapidly. She paced the floor, her clothes in disarray—some of them on the floor, where they'd been thrown only moments earlier. She cheated nervous glances at Doyle who was sitting partly hunched over on the couch, massaging the tension out of his head.

"Angel's not answering!" She announced with frustration.

"Try Wes." Doyle directed, pulling himself gingerly off of the couch, shaking the rest of the cobwebs out of his head and adjusting his own clothing. Once he had done so, he lurched forward to reclaim his jacket hanging on the doorknob nearby. "We don't have a lot o' time."

A few moments later, Cordelia was chattering into what was clearly Wesley's answering machine. "Wesley, where are you? Doyle had a vision—it's Gunn. He's in trouble! And I can't get Angel. When you get this message, find him and come meet us. Doyle and I are going to save Gunn!"

She hung up the phone and leveled Doyle with a nervous look. "We have to go, right? We can't wait for them."

"We really can't." Doyle reluctantly confirmed. "Grab yourself a weapon, darlin'. I have a feeling you're gonna need it this time."


	7. First Impressions, Pt 3

**"First Impressions," Part III**

"You two are outta your minds!"

Gunn stalked down the hallway with Doyle and Cordelia skittering to keep up with his long strides. Cordelia was juggling both her purse and a modestly-sized axe, and she was wearing a rather chagrined expression. Doyle was less apologetic as he reached out a hand to try and get Gunn to stop moving.

"I know what I saw, man. You're in danger!" Doyle insisted, even as Gunn shook him off. He did, however, stop walking long enough to point an angry finger in Cordelia's direction.

"With her around we're all in danger. You're girlfriend nearly took Joey's head off back there." Gunn said with extreme annoyance. "If she'd used the sharp end, he'd probably be dead."

"That was an accident!" Cordelia yelped in her own defense. "I thought you were being attacked by a demon. I was _trying_ to save your life."

Doyle shifted his weight, blowing out a frustrated stream of air. It was true, Cordelia had gotten a little ahead of herself, and as a result, she'd ended up knocking an innocent guy over the head with her axe, rather than a demon. Worst of all, she'd managed to do it in a room full of onlookers, who were all quite amused by the scrawny white girl who'd busted in on their training session to give their pal Joey a concussion.

It was an honest mistake.

"First of all, if that had been a demon, you should've been using the sharp end." Gunn pointed out. "Secondly, I don't need some skinny beauty queen trying to rescue me in front of my crew!"

"So you're mad because a girl tried to save you?" Cordelia cried. "Get over it!"

"Some weak-ass white boy who dresses like a pimp ain't no better." Gunn retorted.

"Hey, listen, bud. I'll have you know, I'm more than meets the eye!" Doyle argued. "And whether or not you want our help is irrelevant. I know what I saw in my vision. Big, angry demon coming to take a chunk outta you—without us, you're as good as dead."

Gunn rolled his eyes and whirled back around to continue down the hallway toward the exit. "There ain't nothing coming after me that you and Miss California are gonna be able to stop. I can take care of myself, bro." He thrust the doors open onto the street, and stood aside to let Cordelia and Doyle exit as well. "Now I suggest you get in your car and drive the hell on back to that fancy hotel of yours. You feel me?"

"Well, when you end up dead, don't come whining to us!" Cordelia said defiantly, turning away from Gunn to storm back to the car. She took only one step and then stumbled to an abrupt stop. "Um… Doyle. Where's Angel's car?"

"What d'ya mean, I parked it right…" Doyle stared at the empty parking space where Angel's car had been less than ten minutes earlier. "Oh, man. He's gonna kill us."

"I distinctly remember him handing the keys to _you_." Cordelia pointed out judiciously.

Doyle frowned over at his girlfriend, who seemed comfortable with throwing him under the wheels of the missing convertible at this particular moment. "Well, I think it's safe to say he'll never lend _either_ of us his car again—seeing how he doesn't have one anymore."

"You were right the first time." She lamented, her brows knit together with worry. "We're talking homicide, for sure. You know how much Angel loves that car."

Gunn was glaring silently at the two of them, clearly debating what the quickest way to get rid of them would be. Finally, he sighed and his tone shifted ever so slightly. "I'll find the car. I know a couple guys who jack vintage cars in this part of town."

"Of course, you do." Cordelia muttered sarcastically. "And I'm sure they'll just give it right back to you if you ask politely."

"If I ask with my fists they might." Gunn shot back.

Cordelia gave a burst of mirthless laughter. "Wow. What a great plan! Did you hear that, Doyle? Gunn's got friends in low places who he'll beat up if he doesn't get what he wants—are we sure it's just one demon who wants to kill him?!"

"You want me to think twice about helping you find your damn car?" Gunn growled in rebuttal, causing Doyle to quickly step in between the two of them.

Doyle held his hands out in surrender, flashing Gunn a pleading look. "Listen, man. We're at your mercy here. If there's a way you can help us get Angel's car back, we'd appreciate it, yeah? And after that, we'll get outta your hair. Promise. No more rescuing by either one of us."

Gunn and Cordelia stared each other down for a loaded moment before Gunn finally backed off, shifting his eyes to Doyle instead. "Yeah, alright. I'm holding you to that deal, Irish. I find Angel's ride—we square."

"Deal." Doyle agreed, secretly crossing his fingers behind his back. They weren't in the habit of giving up on saving a life, and they certainly weren't going to start with Gunn's. But, for the time being, they had a much bigger problem to solve—finding Angel's beloved car before he knew it was missing!

* * *

Gunn slammed the door of his pickup truck and was crossing the street before Doyle and Cordelia had a chance to fully exit the vehicle.

"I've had it with this guy." Cordelia grumbled as Doyle held the passenger side door open, waiting for her to slide out. "You told me to be nice, so I'm being nice, but if I have to put up with his bad attitude for five more minutes, I am going to use the sharp end of this axe."

"Speaking of the axe..." Doyle noted, trying his best to be diplomatic under the circumstances. "Y'think maybe ya wanna leave it in the truck? We are walking into a party here."

"It's a party full of criminals, Doyle." Cordelia scoffed, hopping out of the truck and slamming the door behind her. "I'm definitely bringing the axe."

She stomped across the street toward the spot where Gunn impatiently waited for the two of them and Doyle scrambled to keep up. "Now, see, that's definitely the type of thing that could rub a guy the wrong way. Implying that these friends of his are criminals—it's a little narrow-minded, yeah?"

"We're here to look for a car thief." She reminded him as they approached Gunn, who gave them each a warning look.

"Alright, here's what's going down. You two keep your heads down and mouths shut. Got it?" Gunn instructed them. "Leave the talking to me."

"Excuse me?" Cordelia rebutted. "I don't need you to tell me how to act at a party. I may be a little out of practice, due to the fact I spend most night's hunting demons, but I used to be the most popular girl at Sunnydale High. There wasn't a party thrown, that I didn't rule over!"

"This ain't Sunnydale, Barbie. So, do me a favor—stick the axe in your purse." Gunn shot back, before clomping up the porch steps and heading into the crowded house, with his begrudging guests following closely at his heels. Gunn was greeted by nearly everyone he passed—most of them pleasantly surprised to see him, wondering why he hadn't been around. "Been busy, man," was his stock reply as he bumped knuckles with a group of guys, right before catching an attractive young woman who'd launched herself into his arms enthusiastically. "Veronica, looking good, girl. How've you been?"

"Well, would you look at that? He has _actual_ friends that seem to like him." Cordelia observed, barely audible over the cacophony of sounds surrounding them. "I guess he is capable of being a people person. Maybe it's just _us_ he has a problem with."

Doyle was several paces behind Gunn, controlling the urge to cover his ears to block out the blaring rap music that he could also feel pounding in his chest. He hated to admit it, but he would've gladly taken Barry Manilow over this racket. Thankfully, her one comment aside, Cordelia was following Gunn's instructions, perhaps, having realized once they actually stepped through the front door, this was not the kind of party she was accustomed to. She slid her hand into Doyle's and stayed close to his side, biting her lip to keep from commenting on the shoddy decor. The two of them certainly weren't going to blend with this crowd no matter how hard they tried, so getting in and out of this party without drawing any unneeded attention was the best they could hope for.

Once they made it all the way to the living room area, Doyle tried his best to look casual, slinging an arm over Cordelia's shoulders and waiting for Gunn to give him the signal that Desmond, the car thief, was on the premises. It was a good guess that the place didn't actually belong to anyone at the party; if one of them lived there, it was mostly likely in a squatting capacity. "Hey, this isn't so bad, yeah? You're always saying we need to get out more—go to parties. Be social and all that."

"This isn't socializing." Cordelia bit back at him, clutching the axe close to her chest. "I wouldn't be socializing with these people if someone's life—and Angel's car—didn't depend on it. But, you bring up a good point—when's the last time we were at a party I'd actually like to be seen at, huh?"

Doyle nodded absently at Cordelia, before catching Gunn's eye from across the room. The other man nodded toward a man holding a cold beer, who was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. "Ah… I think he found our guy." Doyle said.

"Of course. I bring up our sorely lacking social lives, and there's a conveniently timed distraction." Cordelia grumped as Doyle towed her along with him in the direction where Gunn had already greeted the probable car thief.

"G-Man, can I getcha a brew?" Desmond asked, indicating the bottle he held in his hand.

"You can give me the '67 Plymouth you stole from my place tonight." Gunn replied without preamble.

Desmond played it cool, not missing a beat. "What makes you think I'm the guy?"

"Don't play with me and I won't play with you." Gunn responded, looking anything but playful.

Desmond dropped the act, his face filling with contrition. "Hey, I had no idea—"

CRASH!

Doyle's head snapped up toward the wall of broken glass that had previously been a large picture window. Three vampires had leapt through it and made a beeline for Gunn, making it no great mystery as to why they had so literally crashed this particular party—their ease of entrance lent further credence to the squatting theory. Gunn immediately began fighting off his attackers, but behind the original three, were a group of other vampires, also leaping through the now broken window to terrorize the party guests. Even with the loud music still blaring, the screams were deafening.

Cordelia had been knocked away from Doyle by one of the first vampires through the window, she was in the process of picking herself up off the floor as Doyle was thrown in the opposite direction, unable to assist her. She stood out of the way, wielding her axe bravely, if ineffectually. Doyle punched the vampire who had taken him down, searching for anything pointy and wooden that might be of assistance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man they were supposed to be saving, getting the snot beaten out of him by three other vampires.

Gunn's arms were pinned to the wall, while a third vamp punched him in the ribs. "Charles Gunn." One of the vampires identified Gunn on sight as he continued to knock the wind out of him, making an answer very much impossible. "You're a trouble maker."

An answer probably wasn't what they were looking for anyway.

As Doyle wrestled with his own vampire opponent, he was vaguely conscious of the woman named Veronica fearlessly trying to wrench one of the vampires away from Gunn. All she got for her effort was a trip into a glass cabinet and a shard of glass lodged in her neck. Doyle winced as he saw the very serious nature of her injury, but he was distracted by a chunk of wooden banister that had been knocked from the staircase, landing several inches away from his fingertips. Using all his weight, Doyle rolled just far enough so that his hand could wrap around the thick shard of wood and he plunged it deep into the heart of the vampire on top of him. Seconds later he was covered in dust, and hastily pulling himself off the floor, ready to jump back into action depending on who needed his help the most.

He searched for Cordelia first and foremost, and saw her in a corner across the room, with her arms around the girl named Veronica, who was bleeding profusely from her neck wound. Cordelia had ripped one of the sleeves off her white sweater and was using it to apply pressure to the woman's wound—hopefully, buying them enough time to get her proper medical attention. Cordelia's eyes briefly lifted toward Doyle and he could see the desperation in them. She shook her head with worry and silently mouthed. "It's bad."

To his left, Doyle could see Gunn fighting back against the vamps that had targeted him, getting assistance from some of the other party-goers. Cordelia and Veronica looked about as safe as they were going to get under the circumstances, so Doyle rushed to Gunn's aid, easily staking one of the vampires whose back was turned away from him. The last remaining vampire, seeing that most of his friends were now littering the floorboards or had already had their fill and left, swiftly backed away and jumped out the broken window, leaving the scene of mass destruction behind him.

"Doyle!" Cordelia's voice cut through the aftermath, and he raced to her side, squatting down beside her to help assess Veronica's condition. It didn't take any kind of medical expertise to see that it wasn't good. Bright red blood had soaked all the way through the piece of cloth Cordelia held against the girl's neck and she was ripping another strip from the bottom of her sweater to add to the mound of cloth under her hand. "We need to get her to the hospital. Now!"

Doyle wasn't going to disagree, slipping his arms underneath the prone body of the dying woman, he lifted her, while Cordelia kept her hands firmly against the woman's neck. They were going to have to move as one in order to make this work, so it was a good thing they had a lot of practice doing exactly that. Gunn stepped out of what remained of the crowd, his face losing some of its color. "Nah, man... Veronica. This shouldn't have happened. Those vamps were after me, not her."

"She's not dead." Doyle pointed out. "But we've gotta move if ya wanna keep it that way."

"Yeah, I wanna keep it that way..." Gunn assured Doyle, visibly wrangling in his emotions. He hurriedly led the way out the front door and to his truck waiting across the street. Doyle and Cordelia moved swiftly behind him, in perfect unison, working together to keep Veronica alive.


	8. First Impressions, Pt 4

**"First Impressions," Part IV**

In the desolate garage sat a lone '67 Plymouth Convertible, belonging to one vampire with a soul.

"See, Desmond told it true. Still in one piece." Gunn announced crossing the oil-stained concrete floor toward the parked vehicle. "I did my part, now ya'll need to do yours... and get the hell outta my 'hood."

Cordelia was trudging along beside Doyle, wrapped in his beat up brown leather jacket, which covered the torn remains of her bloodied white sweater. She still carried the axe, but it dangled listlessly at her side—a sure sign that her arms were tired from all the excitement of the evening.

Doyle couldn't be any more proud of her. For starters, she'd been willing to use the axe, and in fact, had used it. Albeit, she'd used it on someone she probably shouldn't have. But, more importantly, she had saved a woman's life tonight. The doctors at the hospital had confirmed as much—Veronica would have bled out had Cordelia not applied constant pressure from the point of injury. And despite Gunn's lack of verbal thanks, Doyle knew he was relieved not to have that particular death on his conscience.

"You'd better watch your back, bud. What we faced tonight wasn't what I saw in my vision, which means, that thing is still out there." Doyle reminded the taller man. He was reluctant to leave this job unfinished, but he wasn't sure there was anything he and Cordelia could do at this point. The demon from his vision hadn't found Gunn yet, and he was desperate to get rid of Cordelia and Doyle as quickly as he could. They couldn't exactly follow him around for days on end without his consent. Frankly, one night had been more than enough.

"It ain't me you have to worry about—it's everyone else. The one's who don't sign up for it." Gunn retorted, with just the slightest hint of melancholy. "It's the people like Alonna who end up getting hurt in all this."

"You mean Veronica, don't you?" Cordelia corrected.

"Her, too." Gunn replied, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Doyle patted Cordelia affectionately on the back. "The keys are in my pocket, darlin'. Why don't ya warm up the car, yeah?"

She stuck her hand in the pocket of his jacket and came out with the keys, jangling them in the air and turning to walk toward the parked convertible. Doyle remained standing beside Gunn, debating what kind of parting wisdom to leave with the man he was supposed to save. "You're a good fighter, no arguments there." Doyle offered. "It's the diplomacy ya gotta work on. Ya can't always negotiate with your fists—and your guys, as loyal as they seem, won't be staying loyal to a guy who rides 'em as hard as you do. Ya need friends, not enemies."

"Yeah, well, in my experience, _friends_ tend to get killed by my enemies." Gunn shot back. "And the enemies keep multiplying."

"Friends like _us_ can help." Doyle clarified. "We can protect the others ya care so much about. It's what we do."

"I ain't got no one I care about anymore." Gunn replied bitterly. "And, no offense, but you two aren't any help. I get why you do what you do—you see bad things in your head and you wanna go out and make 'em stop—but your girl's a liability. Why you risking her life for no good reason?"

Doyle shook his head in reply, chuckling at how off-base Gunn was. "Hey, I'm not risking her life, man—Cordy does what she wants, and, trust me, no one can stop her when her mind's set." He cheated an admiring glance at Cordelia who was seated in the driver's seat of Angel's car, checking out her reflection in the rearview mirror, wiping away a smudge from her face. A smudge that may very well be blood from the girl she'd saved earlier. "She fights for the same reason we all do, 'cause she knows what's out there and she can't go back to ignoring it. And there's another good reason—other people, like your friend Veronica, for one—they're safer 'cause she's there looking out for 'em. It's not always about the muscle, yeah?"

Gunn let out a long breath. "Yeah. Guess I'm supposed to thank her for that, right?"

"It'd be a nice gesture." Doyle agreed. "Or, maybe ya just don't get yourself killed and we'll call it even."

"Don't make promises you can't keep." A voice growled at them from behind.

Doyle turned around and his jaw dropped slightly open as his eye line adjusted to meet the large demon's eyes, towering over them. "Well, now _that's_ what I saw in my vision."

Movement from the corner of his eye, told Doyle they were surrounded. He sensed a group of vampires, probably working for the demon who was getting ready to pulverize them. One, in particular, looked to be the sole survivor of the party-crasher group. That certainly explained a lot about the events of the night.

"I'm guessing you're Deevak." Gunn addressed the demon without a hint of fear. Which was fine, since Doyle had enough fear for the both of them. Not to mention Cordelia, who judging by the loud gasp, had also been alerted to their dire situation. He hoped to hell she stayed in the car—possibly in a duck and cover position. Sure, he'd been defensive of Gunn questioning her presence on the battlefield, but he really preferred her not to be in the _middle_ of it.

"And you're the big, bad Gunn. Heard you've been looking for me." Deevak growled menacingly, reaching out unexpectedly to grab Gunn by the throat. "You found me."

"Hey, back off, buddy!" Doyle had instinctively lurched forward to help Gunn, when Deevak took a swing, sending him hurtling backwards and landing against the trunk of Angel's car with a definitive thump.

Cordelia was at his side, having crawled through the car from the front seat; her hands landed on his shoulders as she clung to him from behind. "Oh God, he's gonna kill him…"

She was referring to Gunn, who had been lifted off the ground by his neck, and didn't look like he was breathing all too well. Doyle made a split decision; this was one of those times when having demon DNA was a little more desirable than not having demon DNA. He phased into his demon form, revealing a face full of midnight blue spikes and a much meaner and greener complexion, and then launched himself forward at the demon named Deevak.

The larger demon was taken by surprise, which resulted in him dropping Gunn unceremoniously to the ground, where he wheezed heavily, desperate to get oxygen back into his lungs. It took him a few seconds to realize that the man who had come to his rescue, wasn't entirely a man at all. "Woah! Doyle? What the hell?!"

Doyle struggled with Deevak, doing little in the way of causing injury, but in the very least causing enough distraction for Gunn to get his bearings—and possibly for him to grab a weapon of some sort. A weapon would be good, since it was very likely that Deevak was going to kill Doyle in a matter of seconds.

"You're a demon?!" Gunn shouted up at him from his place on the floor. "Why didn't you say something?!"

Doyle was now struggling to breathe at the hands of Deevak and as he felt the much larger demon's talons begin to twist, he could barely choke back a reply. "Didn't… seem… relevant…"

Cordelia had now rushed forward to help knock Gunn back to his senses, and urge him to get up off the floor. "Could you maybe table the whole Doyle-is-a-demon discussion for a time when some other demon isn't _choking_ _the_ _life_ _out_ _of_ _him_?!" She forcefully shoved the axe into Gunn's hand and pointed toward the two struggling demons in front of them. "Help him—but, y'know, be _careful_."

At that moment a loud snap was heard as Deevak twisted Doyle's neck around in a most violent fashion. He then tossed Doyle's lifeless body out of the way like a ragdoll, and stalked in the direction of Gunn and Cordelia.

"Nevermind." Cordelia chirped nervously, backpedaling a few steps.

A horrific screeching sound signaled that the heavy metal garage door was now being forced closed. Trapping them with one very large, and decidedly pissed off, demon.

"Real sorry 'bout your boyfriend." Gunn grunted to Cordelia, as the two of them continued to back away as the giant demon lumbered toward them. "If it's any consolation, I think we're about to join him."

"You don't have to be sorry—he's tougher than he looks." She answered confidently, as the sound of a motorcycle engine filled the air. "And if it's any consolation—I think Angel is about to join _us_!"

No sooner had she said it, than Wesley and Angel slid underneath the nearly-closed garage door, tires and metal screeching. They drove straight into one of the vampire guards, knocking him to the ground. Angel then dove off the bike, tossing what looked to be a pink helmet off his head in the process, and took on two other vamps who had immediately closed in on him. Meanwhile, Wesley dismounted in a more human fashion, and faced down a third vampire.

Gunn, inspired by the reinforcements, lifted Cordelia's axe that he now held in his hand and nodded to her in thanks before leaping forward to take a swing at Deevak. Despite its size, the demon was fast. It stepped out of the way, spinning back around to knock the axe out of Gunn's hand, which went skidding across the floor, out of reach. But, Gunn was re-energized now, and wasn't about to back down. He took several more swings at Deevak, which the demon easily ducked, before taking a few swings and misses of his own.

Slowly sitting up and twisting his neck back into place, Doyle blinked rapidly trying to focus on the chaos that had erupted around him. He saw Angel and Wesley in the thick of it, while Gunn faced off against Deevak, barely holding his own. Beyond that, he saw Cordelia crouched behind Angel's car, trying not to draw attention to herself, which was probably wise under the circumstances. Unfortunately, Doyle could see that one of the vampires _had_ noticed her and was making his way toward her, wielding a crowbar like a sword.

There wasn't any time to waste—and he was faster as a demon, so morphing back to human wasn't an option. Doyle slid into action, rolling across the ground to retrieve the axe, springing to his feet and running dead ahead toward Cordelia who raised her eyes questioningly at his frenzied approach. She looked behind her at the last minute, to see the vampire bringing the crowbar down toward her head—CLASH! The crowbar hit the handle of the axe in Doyle's hand instead of hitting Cordelia. Doyle then threw his weight into the weapon, shoving the vampire back several steps. Finally, Doyle finished him off with a decapitating blow. The ash showered down over his feet, at the same moment he heard a disheartening thud from behind him.

With Cordelia now safe at his side, Doyle swiveled back toward the main ruckus and saw Gunn hit the floor hard, with Deevak towering over him ready to strike a killing blow. But, Angel was already in motion, taking a flying leap toward the demon as he simultaneously held a hand out toward Doyle. "Doyle! Axe!" He called, and Doyle reflexively tossed the weapon in Angel's direction, allowing the vampire to catch it and plant it deep inside the skull of Deevak.

After Deevak's body hit the ground, silence was all that remained. And heavy breathing, courtesy of the three humans in the room, particularly Gunn, who lay flat on his back, wondering how he'd managed not to die. Doyle reached down and lifted Cordelia off the ground, as Angel offered a hand to Gunn to do the same.

Seeing that there was no more fight to be had, Doyle shook off the demon—er, he _tried_ to shake off the demon. _What the hell?_ The demon didn't shake off. Doyle stood there, his pulse increasing as a lightning bolt of panic struck him—he'd never had a problem shaking off the demon. Not since the very beginning, when he hadn't known how it worked. Nowadays, it was usually as simple as blinking—

He felt Cordelia's hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn his attention on her. "You okay?" She asked worriedly, her hand sliding to the back of his neck to rub his upper spine. "I'll never get used to seeing your neck get broken like that."

If she thought it odd that he was still wearing his demon face, she said nothing. Her only apparent concern, was the status of his unbroken neck.

"Ah… yeah." Doyle replied uncertainly, trying once again to shake off the demon, and finally feeling the spikes retract into his skin this time. "I'm fine." He assured her, giving a weak smile with his human face. He was relieved, but more than a little unsettled by what had just happened.

"Thankfully everyone's in one piece—even the car." She said proudly, stepping away from him to give Angel back his keys. Doyle stood frozen in place, trying not to dwell on the odd phenomenon he'd just experienced. Maybe he'd been injured worse than he'd realized and his body had clung to the demon visage to protect him. Yeah, that was probably it. Had to be.

* * *

"Is this a dent?" Angel wondered, running his fingers along the trunk of his car. "I see a dent."

"I don't see anything." Cordelia responded from beside Angel, arms folded over her chest as she squinted down at the non-dent in question. Doyle's leather jacket still hung loosely over her small frame—he always enjoyed seeing her in his clothes, regardless of how much she claimed to hate them. "Oh wait… maybe this is where Doyle landed when he got thrown halfway across the room by the big murderous demon."

"He what?" Angel asked, leaning closer to give the trunk of his car a closer inspection.

Overhearing what was going on several feet away, Doyle shuffled a few steps in the opposite direction, to stand with Gunn by the pickup truck. The taller man stood rubbing his sore neck, still looking mildly in shock. Or, maybe a better description would be humbled. Certainly violence or injury wasn't enough to shock Gunn, but being saved by others was an experience he wasn't yet accustomed to.

"Alright you win." Gunn finally admitted, without Doyle having said anything at all. "Thanks for saving my life tonight. Happy?"

"That you're alive?" Doyle mused. "Yeah, I'm pretty happy about that. But, I don't think the life-saving part is over just yet."

Gunn wrinkled his brow at that statement, leveling Doyle with a curious glance. "You seen something else in that head of yours?"

"Not this time." Doyle clarified. "But keep up your current lifestyle—this path of self-destruction you're so hell-bent on traveling—and I'm thinking you'll be a featured player in my visions from now on." Doyle leaned against the pickup, folding his arms casually and training his eyes on Angel and Cordelia as they continued to bicker over the condition of the convertible. "It's like I said before, man. Ya need us. What's more, we need you."

Gunn took that in and didn't say anything right away. It was hard to tell whether the words permeated beyond Gunn's thick walls. A few loaded beats of silence passed before Gunn finally spoke. "So what you saying? I should come work for Angel?"

"If you're interested, I can put in a good word for ya." Doyle offered, trying to fight the grin that hovered just beyond the corners of his mouth. He didn't think it would be quite this easy to get Gunn to play well with the team, but perhaps, for once, destiny was actually on his side.

"I could use the money." Gunn allowed, turning his eyes toward the vampire and the former Queen of the Winter Ball who were currently discussing the bloodstains on Angel's leather interior. Doyle had to snigger at that—he also had to wonder if he wouldn't be better off riding home with Wesley on the back of that motorcycle. Wearing the pink helmet would be far less excruciating than being lectured by Angel about the superficial damage to his precious car.

Gunn tilted his head back in Doyle's direction, lifting an admiring brow. "No offense, man, but I never thought a chick like that would be dating a demon."

"You and me both, pal." Doyle replied with a snort. "But, for the record, I'm half human. I don't use the demon any more than I have to."

"Well, that broken neck thing was pretty bad ass." Gunn remarked. "It hurt?"

"Only about as much as it looks."

* * *

Cordelia peeled off Doyle's brown leather jacket and tossed it over a chair in the corner of her bedroom. She would never admit it out loud, but she secretly enjoyed opportunities to wear his clothes. Sure, they were hideous and often stunk of cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave, but there was something comforting and oddly sensual about wearing something of his on her body.

At the moment, it wasn't just his clothes that were on her. She felt his eyes on her as well—Doyle was leaning in the doorway of her bedroom, watching her undress. Something he did often, with little apology.

She paused to look down at the blood-soaked remnants of her favorite white sweater and sighed heavily. "Well, this is trashed." She observed. "As if I haven't lost enough of my wardrobe to the good fight. Soon there'll be nothing left, and you'll finally get your wish—me, in as little clothing as possible at all times."

"Not that I don't like the sounda that… but, I'll replace the sweater." Doyle offered, watching admiringly as she stripped the ruined garment from her body and tossed it to the bedroom floor. "Least I can do for dragging ya out there tonight."

"You know I always encourage presents." Cordelia replied with a coy smile, also working to remove her heavily soiled jeans. They would probably wash, at least. "But, I don't think I should be encouraging _you_ to buy me clothes, considering what you wear. And, since when do you think you could drag me anywhere I wasn't willing to go?"

Doyle chuckled at her gentle ribbing, as he finally stepped through the threshold, blocking her path as she headed toward her closet to retrieve her robe. He caught her around the waist before she'd made it that far, gazing down at her adoringly—running his hands over the bare flesh of her back. She wriggled and tried to free herself from his grasp. "Doyle, let go. I'm all dirty. I need to shower, stat."

"I'll let ya go in just a minute, darlin'." He smiled down at her. "But right now I wanna tell ya how amazing you were out there tonight. A life was saved and that was all your doing."

Cordelia's face softened and she allowed herself to stay wrapped in his arms for the time being, embracing the fact that he was just as filthy as she was; there was no point in being shy about it. She couldn't deny that his praise was something she very much wanted to bask in. "I guess it was." She said proudly. It did feel really good to know that she'd made a difference in tonight's battle. Not that she wasn't proud of the support she gave to the guys on a regular basis, but being hands-on was a little more gratifying. In fact, she had particularly enjoyed the adrenaline rush of racing to Gunn's rescue wielding her axe valiantly. The one flaw was that she hadn't actually saved him from anything. "We make a pretty good evil-fighting duo. You, with your spikes—which hardly clash at all with your demon complexion—and me, with my stylish, yet sensible shoes, and my battle-axe."

Doyle laughed at that declaration, probably re-running the vision of Cordelia racing to Gunn's aid in his mind. "Ah… yeah, I'll give ya the shoes, but I think ya might need a little more practice with the weaponry. Good thing Joey there, had a thick skull."

"I guess I'll stick to my strengths for now." Cordelia replied with a shrug. "Medical assistance and invoicing. Not to mention my exceptional people-skills."

"The key to our entire business model." Doyle enthused. "Ya reel 'em in with that killer smile of yours and Angel saves their souls before Wesley can scare 'em off."

"It's worked for us so far." Cordelia pointed out, pressing a finger into Doyle's chest and then using the leverage to finally push herself out of his arms. He let her go this time, freeing her to grab her robe, covering up the yards of enticing flesh before he tried to start something he probably didn't have the stamina to finish. It had been a long night, and they were both dead on their feet. They'd be lucky if they could both make it through the showering process without passing out.

"We've got a lot working for us." Doyle said, moving away from her to begin removing his own filthy clothes. "And I think we'll have Gunn working for us, too… soon enough."

Cordelia had wrapped herself in her robe and turned the tables on him—watching appreciatively as he undressed before her eyes. Doyle may not be built like Adonis, but she had found that she rather appreciated his average-Joe assets, as well as the coarse, dark hair that covered much of his physique. Never in her life would she have thought it possible to be attracted to _that_ , and yet here she stood drinking him in with her eyes. Perhaps, what they said was true—love was blind. Or, in the very least, love could use some glasses. "So… are you serious about moving into the Hyperion?" She asked suddenly, the words slipping from her lips unbidden.

"Yeah, o'course I'm serious." Doyle responded easily, tossing aside his fully-unbuttoned shirt and yanking his undershirt up and over his head, causing his dark hair to stand up haphazardly. "Why?"

She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it quickly. "No reason." She said, covering for her initial thought, which she wasn't quite ready to vocalize. "I'm just really sick of packing boxes, that's all."

"And I'm real sick of moving 'em, which is why I'll make sure Angel helps this time." Doyle agreed, dropping his pants to the floor and then crossing back toward the bedroom door, gently stealing a kiss from her on his way out. "Hey, ya mind if I jump in the shower first? I'll be out before ya finish brushing your teeth. Promise."

She rolled her eyes and swatted him away. "Yeah, whatever."

He disappeared down the hall and she stared after him, turning her head back to his pile of dirty clothes laying in the middle of her bedroom floor. She hated when he left things lying around like that, and yet, she wouldn't have had it any other way. Just like she wouldn't have wanted his toothbrush to disappear from the holder in the bathroom, or his newspaper to disappear from her coffee table, or his beer from her refrigerator. All those things signaled that he was close by, and that he'd be in her bed that night, just as he had been for every other night in recent memory.

Maybe that's why the thought of him moving to the Hyperion felt less like him moving from his old apartment to a new one, and a lot like him moving _out_ of her place. And she didn't like that thought one bit.


	9. Untouched, Pt 1

**A/N- Thanks for reading and for all the feedback. I assure you all that I've thought VERY hard about how the Buffyverse would be effected by Doyle's continued presence in it (and knowledge of events), but I concede that this is only one possible version of events. The other possibilities are endless (so someone else should surely write them!) For my AH Universe, I decided that a great many events would have happened just as before, because they were incited by outside sources. Hopefully, as the story continues, you'll see why certain things change and certain things don't and it'll all make sense. If you have any further questions or comments, please feel free to elaborate in the reviews and I will be happy to respond either here or via PM. Thanks again and happy continued reading.** **:)**

* * *

 **"Untouched," Part I**

Doyle and Wesley strode side-by-side down the dark alleyway—having just staked a vampire in the nearby vicinity, they were doing their due diligence. Making sure the guy didn't have any friends in the area who were looking to pick up where their friend had left off, feeding on the homeless population.

"What are your thoughts? Should we be concerned?" Wesley asked, once they got more than halfway down the murky dead-end street.

"Nah, that was a baby vamp. Probably working solo and picking off the winos 'cause they don't fight back." Doyle speculated. "Doubt he has any friends we needa worry about."

"Not about the vampire we just killed. I was talking about Angel." Wesley clarified, with a hint of frustration. Oh, that's right, he'd been droning on about something or other before they'd gone into combat mode. The blank expression Doyle gave him in response, elicited a roll of Wesley's eyes as he repeated something Doyle didn't recall hearing in the first place. "You must have noticed how much he's been sleeping lately. Under normal circumstances, he usually relies on little more than a few hours during the day, but for the past few weeks, it's been all day and half the night. Doesn't it trouble you?"

Doyle kept moving down the alley, even though he knew he wouldn't find anything at the end of it. Truthfully, he just wanted an excuse not to have to look Wesley in the eye as he shrugged off the other man's very valid concerns. "A little extra sleep never hurt anybody." Doyle replied nonchalantly. "I know I, for one, am appreciative of the extra rest this little lull has afforded us."

"I wasn't aware there was a lull." Wesley countered. "Instead, it seems that you and I are patrolling more often—not to mention Gunn. By the way, is he on the payroll now?"

"Angel's fine." Doyle insisted, stopping a few feet from the end of the alley and finally turning to give Wesley his undivided attention. "Trust me. I'd know if he wasn't."

"Right. Of course." Wesley replied somewhat resentfully, stopping in place to stare Doyle down. "How could I forget—you know everything. While the rest of us are on a need-to-know basis, is that right?"

Here they go again.

Over time, Wesley had caught on to the fact that Doyle had far too many accurate hunches to be merely that. It was his assumption that Doyle was receiving information from the Powers That Be that he simply wasn't sharing, which was partially true at any rate. Doyle never bothered to clarify the point, since either way, he wasn't planning on telling Wesley any more than he currently knew—and he knew absolutely nothing about the alternate future Doyle had once seen in a vision.

"I don't know everything." Doyle defended himself lamely.

"Maybe not, but you certainly know much more than you ever share. I must say, I've gotten quite tired of it myself." Wesley admitted, puffing up his chest in that way he so often did. It drove Doyle out of his mind, but he tried to keep his annoyance at bay, seeing how Wesley had a valid point in this particular instance. "I can only assume you tell these things to Angel, because he's your best friend, and Cordelia, because she's… well, ahem... _Cordelia_. But, that makes me the odd man out. Don't you think I've been with the team long enough to be trusted? I'm sure the Powers That Be wouldn't object."

Now it was Doyle's turn to roll his eyes, which he did quite demonstrably, before letting out a deep breath and taking a step closer to Wesley. They could only barely see each other's faces in the extremely dim light that leaked into the alley, but Doyle hoped the other man could see the sincerity on his face. "Cordy and Angel don't know it all either." Doyle assured him. "They've just learned to trust me. Which, considering how long you've been with the team, I'm hoping you do, too."

That took Wesley aback, and he unpuffed his chest, getting visibly flustered. "Well… yes, of course. I do trust you. With my life."

"Good." Doyle replied, reaching out a hand to place on Wesley's shoulder. "'Cause I'm gonna need ya to duck." As he said that, he yanked Wesley downward by the shoulder, and leapt over him to tackle the vampire who'd followed them down the alley to attack. There was a second one, behind the first, which skirted around Doyle and his opponent and went straight for Wesley.

The two of them fought separately, taking and giving some licks, until almost simultaneously, they each got the upper hand. Doyle staked the vampire he'd been wrestling with against the side of the building and spun around to witness Wesley, roll on top of his vampire, successfully plunging a stake in his heart and then landing on the dust-covered concrete with a thud.

Doyle wiped some ash off his forehead, using the sleeve of his jacket and then made his way across the alley to extend a hand down toward Wesley. "Guess he had some friends after all."

Wesley took Doyle's hand and stood up, brushing the dust off his clothes. As Doyle stood observing, he caught a whiff of something in the air. Something was alive in that alley. Doyle watched as Wesley bent down to rub at a scuff on his shoe, wondering if the Englishman could also smell whatever it was he was sensing. But, no, Wesley was clueless, because it wasn't the kind of scent a human should be able to pick up. It was far too subtle for that. And although, it bothered Doyle to no end that he could sense this living creature while he stood there in his human form, he still found himself wandering toward the source of the smell.

He walked toward the pile of garbage bags and boxes that littered one of the darkest corners of the alley, and he stood there in the near pitch black, looking for any sign of movement. The scent had gotten stronger; the creature was close. And it was scared.

"What is it?" Wesley asked from behind, having realized that something had captured Doyle's attention.

Doyle reached into the trash pile, and opened a small cardboard box, revealing a tiny grey kitten inside. It mewed up at him, as he gently retrieved it from box and cupped it close to his body. So small and defenseless—it couldn't be more than a few weeks old. "Hey there, little guy." He spoke to the small, frightened animal. "Don't be scared. I've gotcha."

* * *

"Oh my goodness!" Cordelia squealed with delight, eagerly taking the small ball of fur from Doyle's arms and cuddling it close to her face. "What a cutie!"

Doyle looked on with a wide grin, watching as Cordelia mooned over the tiny kitten he'd brought back to the hotel for her. "I've been calling him Clover." Doyle told her. "Suits him, yeah?"

"Awww. It does! Hi, Clover." She enthused, holding the kitten in the air to look directly at its teeny face. It mewed back at her, as if in reply to her greeting. "I bet you chose that name because of these _beautiful_ green eyes, huh?"

"Actually, it's 'cause he's got the luck o' the Irish on his side—if I hadn't found him, he probably wouldn't have survived on his own." Doyle explained. "So, ya like him?"

"I _love_ him." She enthused, cradling Clover in her arms lovingly as she leaned forward to gift Doyle with a sweet peck on the lips.

Doyle looked past Cordelia toward Angel's empty office and then his eyes traveled down to the vintage gold and leather wristwatch adorning his arm. It was the fanciest watch he'd ever owned in his life—his birthday gift from Cordelia. The underside, pressed flush against his wrist, bore a simple inscription:

 _Time is on our side. Love, C.C._

He had never cared much for accessories, aside from his precious Claddagh ring that never left his finger, and the Celtic Cross he oft wore round his neck. But, he _loved_ this watch and wore it every moment of every day; proud to own something she'd picked out especially for him. Especially, since she'd actually picked something that suited him. Perhaps, that had been the best surprise of all. He thought for sure, her first gift to him would be something _she_ liked, that would improve his wardrobe in some way—and surely, the watch did that. However, the vintage aesthetic actually went with his usual thrift store ensemble.

Just about the only thing it _didn't_ go with was the good fight, which wasn't always easy on the wardrobe or the accessories. As he gazed down at the small hands ticking around the face of the watch, he couldn't help but notice the sizeable scratch that had found its way there. It didn't matter, it still worked just fine—although, he wasn't terribly anxious for Cordelia to see the scratch in question.

At the moment, the watch read 10:13 p.m., which was late even by a creature of the night's standards.

"Angel isn't up yet?" Doyle inquired, noting Wesley's pointed look out of the corner of his eye. He'd probably just tipped his hand, but there was sleeping _a lot_ and then there was sleeping _constantly_ and the former now appeared to have turned into the latter. Doyle couldn't exactly pretend that was normal.

Cordelia was nuzzling noses with the kitten, barely paying attention to the guys anymore. "He's awake." She said disinterestedly. "He came down just a few minutes ago complaining there was no coffee." She finally lowered the kitten, cradling it like a baby and her eyes met Doyle's with an air of annoyance. "What does he think this is? Starbucks? We don't have coffee brewing at all hours, just waiting for him to grace us with his presence."

Doyle reached over and scratched Clover's little head, admiring how natural Cordelia looked with a small bundle in her arms in need of nurturing. It was a little too easy for him to envision her with a different kind of bundle…

He silently chastised himself for letting his mind go there—to those things he used to want when he was a younger man. When he was nothing _but_ a man. Now he knew he was part demon, and there was no going back from that. Any children he'd have would be part demon as well, and he couldn't imagine saddling a child with the same burden he carried. Still, looking at a woman he loved as much as Cordelia, it was easy to forget himself on occasion.

Thankfully, they were a long way away from broaching such topics as marriage and kids. Well, except for that one time when Cordelia had been impregnated by a Haxil Demon and had directly asked Doyle to be the father of her demon babies. But, that didn't really count.

"Ahhhh." Doyle groaned and stumbled backward, as he felt the sudden onslaught of a vision plow through the center of his brain. That was one way to get rid of unwanted thoughts.

He dropped to his knees, grabbing at his head as he watched the vivid imagery of a young woman in trouble flash before his mind's eye. As the images faded and he came back to his senses, he found that Angel had finally joined them in the middle of the lobby. He, along with Wesley, was hovering worriedly over Cordelia's shoulder as she, in turn, held onto Doyle tightly. She had dropped to her knees along with him, wrapping an arm around his upper body to keep him from collapsing entirely. Meanwhile, she still had Clover nestled safely in her other arm.

When she saw that Doyle had regained control over his motor functions, she gently leaned her forehead against his and softly stroked the hair at the base of his skull, offering comfort through both contact and osmosis. But, Doyle didn't have a moment to waste—the vision he'd seen was happening at that very moment. Why the Powers That Be would send something now, when they had very little chance of stopping it, was something Doyle would never understand.

"Alleyway near Hollywood and Wilcox—ya gotta go right now!" Doyle choked out without bothering to get up from his position on the floor. Instead, he lifted his head away from Cordelia's and made eye contact with Angel, pointing firmly at the front door. "There's a girl screaming for her life and it won't end well if ya don't hurry!"

Angel nodded his acceptance of Doyle's orders and flew to the front door, disappearing into the night.

"Oh God." Doyle moaned, hunching over and burying his head against Cordelia's shoulder. "He's gonna be too late."

Cordelia simply hushed him and held him close. There was nothing else she could do, aside from pray that Doyle was wrong and that Angel would save the day, after all.


	10. Untouched, Pt 2

**"Untouched," Part II**

Cordelia scrunched up her face with concern as she tried to get the medical tape to stay secure around Angel's wounded shoulder. He had returned from the mission with news of two smooshed bodies in an alley, a nasty looking puncture in his shoulder and no further information on the young girl he'd been trying to save. As it turned out, it wasn't so much that she needed saving, as she needed to stop saving herself with violence—although, the way Angel told it, she wasn't necessarily in control of her ability to do whatever she did.

"Stop moving!" Cordelia ordered the shirtless vampire sitting on the plush chair before her. "I can't get this bandage to stick."

"I'm not." Angel responded.

"Well, then stop breathing." She countered.

"I don't breathe." He mumbled in that annoyingly monotone way that roughly equated to 'duh' in Angel-speak.

"I don't understand why bandages never stick to you properly." She complained, fussing with the non-sticking bandage in question. "I don't have this problem when I bandage up Doyle. Maybe it's all the muscles that are the problem."

A low sputter behind her indicated that Doyle didn't necessarily appreciate that comment. She didn't bother turning around to make him feel better about his non-muscular physique. It was the truth. Angel had an abundance of finely toned muscles, and Doyle didn't. Now, working out—something Doyle never, ever did—might change that fact. But, he was about as likely to go to the gym as Cordelia was to shop at the Goodwill. And it's not like she was saying she preferred Angel's muscles, which were currently making her job that much harder.

"Are you flexing?" Cordelia wondered, eyeing Angel closely. "Stop flexing."

"He's not flexing." Doyle offered from behind her, shuffling closer to take another peek at the wound before she was finally able to cover it up. "She gotcha good, didn't she? That's a nasty looking wound."

"Should've seen the other guys." Angel noted dryly. Cordelia did not wish to see those other guys, knowing full well that those other guys had a dumpster dropped on them, rather than simply being impaled by a scrap of metal like Angel was.

Wesley came out of the back office carrying an open book, his brow furrowed with deep thought. "I can't say there's much information about Telekinesis in my books. Not as it pertains to humans anyway. You are quite certain she was human?"

"I'm sure." Angel confirmed. "Human, scared and completely out of control. She needs help before she kills someone else."

Cordelia stood up, viewing her handy work from a different angle. The bandage would probably stick long enough for Angel to heal at his super-fast, superhuman rate. She folded her arms over her chest and stared down at him in disappointment. "Y'know what would've been a good step toward helping this Carrie-wannabe? Getting her name. An address. The details about her freaky, overprotective mother. Anything that would help us find her!"

Angel looked up with a pained expression. "I was impaled at the time—you know how hard it is to think straight with a rebar through your torso?"

"Actually, I do." Cordelia shot back. "Benefits of a Sunnydale education."

She squared her shoulders, as the memory of lying there, bleeding underneath the collapsed staircase in the old factory filled her brain. Without so much as a word, Doyle slid an arm around her waist from behind, his hand landing right over the location of her scar. Her pulse sped up as the bad memory evaporated, and was replaced by the much more pleasant memory of lying in Doyle's bed, telling him about the scar. She leaned back into his arms, feeling the comfort and safety he provided; thankful she had something good in her life to soothe the bad.

"You said she's staying with a friend?" Wesley asked, shutting the book in his hand and slipping it under his arm. "So, she's clearly from out of town. Any other details that would help us?"

"An accent." Angel offered. "Northeast I think. Maybe Ohio."

"Runaways from Ohio with a history of supernatural phenomena—that gives us a pretty clear starting point." Doyle summed up.

At that moment, the front doors swung open and in sauntered Gunn with a homemade axe slung over his shoulder. "You called. I came. Now what can I kill?"

"With that thing? I'm thinking nothing." Cordelia replied, indicating the odd-looking axe that looked like it had been hobbled together with hubcaps.

"Oh, it'll get the job done." Gunn assured her, swinging the unusual weapon in demonstration. "Just have to put some muscle behind it."

"I guess ya shouldn't be lending it to me in that case." Doyle joked dryly, giving Cordelia a little squeeze, clearly referencing her dig from moments earlier. "Or Wesley, for that matter."

Wesley merely snorted in reply, but said nothing.

Angel stood up, buttoning up his shirt and approaching Gunn. "Actually, you don't need to kill anything. I need you to do some legwork—talk to some people. Get some information."

"Hey!" Doyle objected. "Ya called him for information? What about me?!"

"Well, I just thought—" Angel, who rarely looked flustered, did look a little ruffled by Doyle's question.

"Let the man earn his keep, Doyle." Cordelia interrupted from her place within Doyle's arms, clearly eager to have someone else on the payroll who could hit the streets, and possibly get beaten up for his efforts. She arched a brow in Gunn's direction. "Assuming The Dark Knight over here knows how to talk without using his fists."

"Sounds boring." Gunn replied, once again slinging the axe over his shoulder.

"There were two guys killed by a mysterious telekinetic girl—she flattened them with a dumpster—on Hollywood and Wilcox. I need to know more about them, so I can find out more about her." Angel explained, hesitantly peeking over at Doyle as he addressed Gunn. Doyle had already given up the fight—it had only been a matter of principle, anyway. He was secretly happy to side with Cordelia in this instance, both for his own physical wellbeing, and for Gunn's further initiation as a member of the team.

"Maybe not so boring. That's not a sentence you hear every day." Gunn noted. "I'm on it."

With that, Gunn turned around and headed right back out the front doors he'd so recently entered.

"Cordelia, do you want to head up the computer search? I have some more books to consult." Wesley announced, as he too turned away and disappeared into the back office.

"Oh goody, another evening of sifting through the geekiest realms of the Internet for things I never wanted to know existed. Can't wait." Cordelia faux-enthused.

Doyle planted a light kiss on the side of Cordelia's head, before retracting his hands from around her waist, so she could cross the lobby and proceed to her desk. As she moved away, he turned his eyes back toward Angel and saw that the vampire was staring at the floor by the reception counter in confusion. He'd finally spotted Clover, who had been quietly batting at a potted plant in the corner.

"When did we get a cat?"

* * *

Doyle wiggled his fingers causing Clover's little paws to excitedly follow them across the carpet. He grinned down at the small furball who was settling in quite nicely at Cordelia's apartment. They'd come back from a long day and night of work to find Dennis amusing his tiny new housemate with a shoelace.

"The little guy likes it here." Doyle said aloud, sitting back on his heels in the middle of Cordelia's living room. "And I think Dennis likes the company, yeah?"

Cordelia appeared from the kitchen with two glasses of water, holding one out to Doyle who looked at it questioningly, wishing it were a beer bottle instead. Nevertheless, he took the glass from her and stood up from the floor, leaving the kitten to chase its own tail across the rug.

"First of all, the little _guy_ is actually a _girl_. And to think, all this time I thought you were _good_ at anatomy." Cordelia corrected teasingly.

"What's the second of all?" Doyle wondered.

"I think a ghostly-cat-sitter is a necessity in our line of work." She said emphatically. "With the ridiculous hours we keep, she'd go hungry if it weren't for Dennis… so, if you're thinking of moving her into the hotel with you, just forget it. She should stay here. With me."

"Yeah, I agree." Doyle clarified, sensing something else in Cordelia's words that he couldn't quite identify. Her eyes were firmly focused on the small kitten at their feet, therefore, he assumed it was simply her rapidly-formed attachment to her new pet that he was picking up on. "She's yours, Princess. I'm not planning on taking her away from ya—although, I'm thinking visitation rights are only fair. Which should be easy, since I'll be here visiting _you_ so often."

"Hmmm." She replied distractedly, which was not at all the snarky comeback he'd expected from her. Perhaps, she was too exhausted for their usual banter this evening. That was always possible. Then again, this was Cordelia, who could dish out sarcastic remarks in her sleep.

Doyle sipped from his glass and watched Cordelia curiously, wondering where her thoughts had strayed. He thought back to the events of the last 48 hours, of which they'd spent most of their hours in and around the Hyperion, dealing with their latest charge. Even though Doyle wasn't officially moved into the hotel yet, they'd been using room 505 as a home away from Cordelia's home, so they could both stay close to the action. Turns out, it had been a wise move.

"Well, we struck another blow at Wolfram & Hart, didn't we?" Doyle reminded her, trying to gain back her attention. "After Angel helps Bethany get her stuff outta that Lilah-woman's apartment, she'll be on a bus and on to a whole new life. And they'll be down one very dangerous weapon."

"Don't they ever get bored of messing with Angel?" Cordelia wondered, finally lifting her eyes back to his face. "If I had all their resources, I could think of a lot better things to do."

Doyle chuckled. "Ah, you're also not evil… most o' the time."

That did the trick. She swatted at him and rolled her eyes good-humoredly, but then he saw her wince immediately following the action. She dropped her eyes once again and hurriedly took a sip from her own glass of water; he took the moment to give her a proper once over. His eyes finally found the source of her unease—a small dark red blotch on her upper arm.

"Take off your shirt." He demanded.

Removing the glass from her lips, Cordelia's brows shot skyward. "Um... could you be any less romantic? What happened to foreplay?"

Doyle took the glass out of her hand and placed it down on the coffee table along with his own, he then gently placed his hand on her arm, causing her to wince once again. "You're hurt." He said with concern. "Let me see."

She sighed and dropped her eyes to the floor as she slowly followed his instructions, gingerly slipping her shirt up and over her head. Once stripped of yet another probably-ruined garment of clothing, Doyle could see the deep puncture wound in the upper portion of her arm, probably caused by a stray nail that Bethany had sent flying during her telekinetic fit of rage.

"Why didn't ya tell me ya got hurt tonight?" Doyle questioned her. His fingertips hovered over the injured flesh, but he didn't dare touch her again, not wanting to cause her more pain if he could help it.

She shook her head slightly, and then lifted her dark eyes back up to meet his, which were filled with concern. "It's no big deal, Doyle." She assured him. "You get hurt all the time, a lot worse than this. Besides, I've had all my tetanus shots and stuff. I'll be fine. My blouse, on the other hand…"

Each and every day she managed to surprise him, which is why his love for her continued to grow, even when he thought it had already hit its maximum capacity. She was so different than the girl he'd met little over a year ago. So different, and yet still the toughest person he'd met in his life—and the bravest. "Can I clean it for ya, love?" He pleaded softly. "The way you do for me."

A small smile broke out on her lips as she nodded her approval, and allowed him to take her by the hand and lead her down the hallway toward her bathroom. Once there, he flipped on the light switch, and opened the cabinet where he knew she kept all her first aid supplies. They each sat down on the rim of the empty bathtub, as he carefully poured peroxide on a cotton ball and began gently dabbing away the dried blood from her slightly inflamed wound.

Doyle then lightly blew on the area, the way she often did—to cool it and send a cold tingle up her arm. He watched as her skin became covered in goose flesh, reacting to his attentions, and he ran his hand over the non-injured portion of her arm to warm her. Moving slowly and cautiously, he took a length of thick bandage, wrapped it around the affected area and secured it in place. "Feel better?"

"Yes. Thanks." She said in a slightly husky voice. He knew that voice. It was the kind of voice that invited him to continue something he'd started, although starting something hadn't necessarily been his intention. Even so, he was feeling it as well; the pull. He found himself scooting closer, so he could lean forward to lightly kiss the exposed skin just above her bandaged arm. And then he continued upward along her shoulder until he found her collarbone.

Her head tilted back, giving him full access to the sensitive skin of her neck and he grazed it gently with his teeth before beginning a slow procession back down the middle of her chest, eventually hitting the lacy material of her bra. He felt her gently tug him upwards and he acquiesced, lifting his lips from her warm flesh for only the few seconds it took to move up to her mouth. He kissed her deeply, as he simultaneously began to stand, pulling her to a standing position along with him, and then he lifted her into his arms so he could back them out into the hallway and continue on toward the bedroom, where he would continue to finish what he'd started for the remainder of the night.


	11. Dear Boy, Pt 1

**"Dear Boy," Part I**

Cordelia crossed the floor of the Hyperion lobby and placed a hot cup of tea on the table in front of Angel. He had actually come downstairs today _before_ the sun went down. Surely it was a historic occasion deserving of fanfare—or tea, in the very least.

"There you go." She said cheerily, gesturing to the steaming hot mug now sitting on the small table. Angel was sitting sunken into the chair cushions like a big lump, looking like he'd spent the previous night partying rather than sleeping. "It's tea. Almost as much caffeine as coffee, with only half the effort."

"I'd prefer coffee." Angel said without moving.

"And I'd prefer a cruise to the Bahamas." She retorted. "Drink your tea."

Angel's eyes moved toward the mug at that point, but he still didn't move a muscle. "Seems far."

Cordelia shook her head with mild annoyance, and walked away from the hopeless vampire seated in the middle of the lobby. "I can see why you'd be so worn out—considering you've been awake for a whole fifteen minutes." She proceeded to the reception counter where she'd left the business ledger open. She'd been staring at it for the better part of the afternoon, and it wasn't getting any less depressing. Leaning her elbows on the countertop, she frowned down at the disappointing page. "Well, it's official—we're back in the red. No thanks to sleeping beauty over there."

"Were we ever in the black?" Wesley wondered from his place at the other end of the counter. As per usual, his nose was buried in a book of his own, albeit much larger, dustier and older than the one Cordelia was currently focused on.

"We were kinda maroon there for a while." Cordelia remarked with a shrug. "But then we got this place, not to mention putting an extra person on the payroll. Whose brilliant idea was _that_ anyway?"

"I believe that would be your boyfriend's." Wesley noted dryly, still not lifting his eyes from his book.

Cordelia tapped her pencil eraser beside the negative number at the bottom of the ledger, wracking her brain for a way to reduce their overhead. "Maybe we should start working by candlelight?" She suggested. "No, I've got it—we send a demon after David Nabbit so he'll hire us again."

That got Wesley's attention. He finally pulled his head out of the book and tilted his head in consideration. "That would be rather immoral, wouldn't you say?"

"Well, morality issues aside, it would help us pay the rent." Cordelia responded pointedly. "And if we had Doyle do it, it wouldn't be bad at all, since he wouldn't really hurt David."

"Ahhh!" From across the room, Angel shouted and leapt up off the couch. Cordelia and Wesley both stared at him, clueless as to what would've caused his sudden, seemingly unprovoked, outburst. Angel shifted his weight and wore a chagrined expression. "I, uh… didn't doze off. Just now."

"God, you are so weird." Cordelia responded matter-of-factly.

The front doors swung open at that moment, drawing her attention in their direction. Her face lit up as the man she loved cheerfully entered with a conspicuous white box tucked under his arm.

Doyle proceeded directly toward the front counter, idly tossing a look over his shoulder at Angel standing sheepishly near one of the lobby chairs. "Hey, man. You're awake. That's great!"

"Yes, after three days of sleep, consciousness is quite an admirable feat." Wesley muttered under his breath.

Ignoring Wesley's remark, Doyle's focus remained on Cordelia as he happily presented her with the box he'd walked in with. She eyed him curiously, noting the extended show of his dimple as he gestured to the box that was now sitting on the reception counter on top of the ledger she'd been sulking over. "For me?"

"It's to replace that ruined sweater ya loved so much." Doyle declared proudly. "The woman at the shop promised me that someone as fashion-conscious as yourself would love it."

Cordelia's right eyebrow quirked up with interest as she opened the box, and lifted the soft, cream-colored sweater from the layers of tissue paper inside box. "Cashmere?!" She asked excitedly, before letting out a high-pitched squeal. "Oh, my God, Doyle! I do love it!" She hugged the sweater to her chest, and then raced around the counter to leap joyously into Doyle's waiting arms. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"

He was nearly as enthusiastic as she was, seeing how happy she was to receive the gift. She let go of him and continued to bounce excitedly. "I'm gonna go try it on!" She announced, before racing toward the staircase to bound upward at top human speed.

Doyle watched her go, wearing a huge, appreciative smile on his face. There was nothing he loved more than seeing Cordelia smile. And she'd done more than smile—she was practically walking on air. Amazing the level of joy a few yards of fabric could bring her. Granted that particular fabric was costly and it would set him back for a while, but it was well worth it to see Cordelia's face light up like a Christmas tree.

"Cashmere." Angel remarked from across the room. "That's expensive, right?"

"The business may be suffering, but we'll all rest easy knowing Cordelia's wardrobe is not." Wesley added.

"Hey, what I do with my own paycheck is my business." Doyle argued. "Ya don't see me judging you for your ever-expanding antique book collection, or criticizing Angel for his overuse of hair gel. Some things are just worth it, yeah?"

Angel wrinkled his forehead as he touched the top of his head curiously. "I use the recommended amount on the container." He mumbled sulkily. "And I can't use a mirror."

Before Doyle could say anything else on the matter, the Powers That Be interrupted the conversation quite rudely, as was their way. Doyle felt the brief warning ache in his forehead that generally came right before a vision hit; he reached out and grasped the side of the reception counter with all his might. Hopefully, he'd manage to stay upright while his brain got up close and personal with a bunch of angry guys in robes slaughtering each other mercilessly as a large slimy demon looked on with glee.

When Doyle came back to his senses, he found Angel beside him with a hand resting on his back and Wesley across from him, with a concerned look etched across his brow.

Doyle swallowed hard, trying to fight a sudden wave of nausea that washed over him. "I think we'd better call Gunn. We're gonna need all the help we can get…"

* * *

Cordelia stood on the stairs, taking in the rather absurd scene before her. Namely, a bunch of guys in red and black robes tearing each other apart at the behest of some moldy-looking growth on the wall that Wesley had identified as a Thrall Demon.

"Oh yeah, definitely a good call not to wear my new sweater. That thing'll definitely stain." She noted, from her place behind Doyle, Angel and Gunn, who all stood at the base of the stairs, weapons at the ready. "I really don't see anything thrilling about it. Of course, it's hard to see under all the slime."

"It's a _Thrall_ Demon." Wesley corrected, from beside her. "These people aren't worshipping the demon by choice; it's using mind control."

"So kill the big ugly, the groupies stop killing each other." Angel declared. "That the idea?"

"In theory." Wesley agreed. "Although Thrall Demons can be—"

Angel didn't wait to hear the end of Wesley's sentence, he had already charged forward to take out one of the followers who blocked his direct path toward the slimy demon at the far end of the room.

"Tricky." Wesley finished lamely, his shoulders slumping in disappointment.

"Intruders!" Someone cried out—it may have been the demon itself, but Cordelia couldn't see anything resembling a mouth on the thing. In any case, the shout caused all the robed fighters to cease fighting each other, and to charge the so-called intruders instead. That left Gunn and Doyle little other choice, than to follow in Angel's foolhardy footsteps.

"I don't think that was the wisest plan we could have executed under the circumstances." Wesley grumbled.

The other three were now completely entangled in the ruckus of the Thrall Demon's followers, who were all too happy to give up waling on each other, in order to go after Angel, Doyle and Gunn… and Wesley and Cordelia, as well.

"No, definitely not!" Cordelia yelped, as she realized several of the robed men were headed directly in their direction on the stairs. "Any better ones?!"

Wesley stepped in front of Cordelia to protect her from the onslaught of demon worshippers. He gestured for her to run in the opposite direction. "See if you can get to the demon." He shouted, right before being tackled to the ground. "Ooomph! Quickly would be good!"

Cordelia didn't need to be told twice. She rushed forward, her hands wrapped around her trusty axe, eyes focused on the blob of green sludge that was supposedly a demon, hoping she could make it there before any of the other followers noticed her, specifically.

Of course, that didn't happen.

"Ahhhhhh!" She screamed, as a pair of arms roughly wrapped around her from behind, yanking her backwards, and causing her axe to go clattering to the ground. She struggled wildly to free herself, and searched frantically for the others. She saw Gunn and Doyle in the middle of the fray, while Angel was only a few feet away from her, waling on a guy who didn't look like he was in danger of getting up any time soon. "Angel!" She called. "Angel, hey! A little help here?!"

Her cries got no response from Angel, who continued beating the guy on the floor into a bloody pulp. Meanwhile, both Doyle and Gunn, who were much farther away, looked up and noticed Cordelia's predicament.

"I'll get fat head. You help your girl." Gunn shouted to Doyle, to which the half-demon nodded his agreement of the plan, and the two parted ways. Gunn shouldered his way through the brawling men, continuing toward the demon mounted on the wall, while Doyle shoved his way toward Cordelia. Cordelia felt the guy's tight grasp on her release, even before Doyle got to her side. She spun around to find that Wesley had come to the rescue, clobbering the guy over the head with the axe handle.

"Thanks." She said breathlessly, turning back around to find Doyle's concerned eyes as he came up beside her; his look morphed to one of relief as he confirmed she was unharmed.

Just then, all the fighting in the room came to an abrupt halt, as across the room, Gunn plunged his homemade axe into the green wall blob. All the robed men stood around in confusion, rubbing their heads and looking like they had no idea how they'd come to be in this place. Probably because they didn't.

All the chaos had stopped… except for Angel, who still was beating on a nearly-unconscious man.

"Angel, man. It's over." Doyle shouted, stepping forward to pry Angel off the guy on the floor. "Stop!"

The vampire took a step back, his face set into a frozen snarl. He seemed dazed, as he finally looked up at Doyle's puzzled expression.

"Are you okay?" Doyle wondered, giving his friend a closer look.

"Shouldn't you be asking the other dude that question?" Gunn pointed out, as he came up behind Doyle, pointing his homemade axe at the beaten man on the floor, who uttered a series of faint groans, signaling that he was alive, at least.

"Yeah." Angel said idly, as he wiped his arm across his brow. "Fine… Job's done. Get these people home."

Without so much as another word, Angel turned and headed back up the stairs, disappearing into the night aboveground.

"I thought ya'll were big on teamwork." Gunn commented. "Not really looking like it from where I'm standing."

"You can try standing here, but it won't look any better." Cordelia sassed, folding her arms over her chest unhappily as she raised a brow toward the man who's gaze still hadn't left the retreating form of his best friend. "What's his damage lately?"

"He hasn't been sleeping well." Doyle answered distractedly.

"All he's done is sleep." Cordelia disputed. Doyle didn't respond; didn't move. He looked a thousand miles away, deep in his own thoughts. As Wesley and Gunn started to assist the slowly dispersing crowd, Cordelia moved closer to Doyle, lightly touching his shoulder to get his attention. He finally turned toward her, almost seeming a little surprised to see her standing there. She nodded toward the staircase Angel had so recently ascended. "You wanna go after him?"

"No." Doyle replied, shaking himself back to the present and gesturing to the dazed individuals all around them. "We needa get these guys home, and then we should do the same. Ya heard Angel—he's fine."

With those words, Doyle moved away to help the battered man on the floor. Cordelia watched his hasty movements, knowing he was still distracted. Likely still thinking of Angel. That part was understandable, since she was still thinking of Angel, too. Wondering what the hell was up with him lately; doubting very much that he was anything close to "fine."

The part that was less understandable was why Doyle didn't seem to want to find out what was wrong with Angel. Cordelia hadn't exactly been complaining that Doyle had been spending far more time with her than with his best friend. For one thing, it was better for his liver, since nights with Angel often entailed a bottle of Scotch. Still… it wasn't like Doyle to be so apathetic to Angel's shifting temperaments. When Angel had brooded over the day that rewound itself, Doyle was there cheering him up. When Angel worried over the fact that Angelus still lived within him, Doyle was there assuring him he was a changed man. When Angel accepted death as his future, Doyle was there objecting.

Now Angel was walking around like a shadow of himself—a rather volatile shadow, for that matter. And Doyle was here, instead of there. Which, in Cordelia's experience, could mean only one thing.

Doyle already knew all he needed to know…


	12. Dear Boy, Pt 2

**"Dear Boy," Part II**

"What the hell was that?!" Cordelia's heels clicked across the tile floor as she angrily made her way into Angel's office to confront the vampire currently seated behind his desk. Doyle grimaced from his perch on the edge of her desk—this wasn't going to be pretty. Nor should it be, under the circumstances. Doyle just hoped Wesley had successfully ushered their new client, Mr. Jeakins, out the front door, so he wouldn't hear anything else that would give him a reason to fire them unceremoniously.

A reason _other_ than one Angel had already given him, which was a rather blunt declaration that the guy's wife was probably cheating on him.

"Have you been taking lessons from Gunn in rudeness?!" Cordelia shouted, standing in Angel's doorway with her hands firmly planted on her hips, her long dark locks flowing behind. "Sure, we all know that guy's wife is cheating on him. But, it's our job to at least _consider_ the alien abduction theory!"

Angel gave a noncommittal shrug. "Yeah, okay. Is that all?"

His complete and utter disinterest only got her more riled up. Doyle held his breath and made nervous eye contact with Wesley who had just come back around the reception counter to witness Cordelia's full-blown verbal assault.

"No, that is not all!" She screeched, her volume increasing along with her level of fury. "It was bad enough you went all Incredible Hulk the other night, completely ignoring the fact that we are a team, but being rude to a paying customer is where I draw the line, buster! We have bills to pay, remember? The lease on this place isn't gonna pay itself. Plus, you have four—count 'em, _four_ —employees now, all of whom are human and need to eat!"

"Cordelia is right." Wesley chimed in, stepping forward to join her in Angel's office doorway. "I've been biting my tongue for a while, Angel, but after today's little show, something must be said—you're behavior has been most unprofessional as of late."

Doyle kept his head down and his mouth shut, waiting for Angel to defend himself. He kept waiting. Angel said nothing. And unfortunately, Cordelia was now looking for backup from more than just Wesley.

"Doyle." Her voice snapped him out of his own bubble, forcing him to look up and meet her expectant eyes. She still stood in the doorway to Angel's office, with her arms crossed boldly. "Stop pretending you're in Switzerland—this is an intervention, and as a founding member of this team, you have to say something."

"I hear Switzerland's actually quite lovely this time of year." Doyle tried to jest, tilting his head to the side. The daggers coming from Cordelia's eyeballs told him that wasn't good enough, so he finally let out a deep breath, and hopped off the side of her desk. Slipping his hands in his back pockets he sauntered closer to Angel's office doorway to stand between Cordelia and Wesley who were each blocking Angel's path to freedom, should he bother getting up from his desk. "Okay, y'wanna know what I think? I think ya both needa remember who's in charge. It's Angel's shop; he can run it any way he chooses."

Doyle could see the flash of quiet rage in Cordelia's eyes at his perceived betrayal, but he ignored it for the time being to turn his full attention on Angel. "But, for the record, they're not wrong, man. Scaring away clients isn't exactly good for business."

Angel nodded, and Doyle saw a subtle change in his friend's demeanor; a silent plea appeared in the vampire's eyes as he pushed back his chair, rose from the desk and wandered toward the doorway where his three employees had convened. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he approached, and kept his head bowed. "I haven't been feeling well." He said reservedly.

"You haven't been looking well either." Cordelia pointed out. "Are you sick? Is it vampire-mono? Or something, y'know, you _don't_ have to kiss someone to get?"

"I don't, uh..." Angel said, his eyes darting over to the half-demon standing on the other side of the doorway. "Doyle, you think we can… talk?"

"O'course, man." Doyle answered, despite the fact that he already knew what Angel probably wanted to say. He turned to appeal to his girlfriend and coworker, gesturing for them to clear out of the doorway. "Ya mind giving us a minute here?'

"I do mind. Very much so." Wesley objected from his side of the doorway. "I'm sorry, Angel, but I think we all deserve an explanation. Not just Doyle."

Doyle had been dreading this moment for weeks; ever since he first noticed Angel's bizarre sleeping habits. Knowing he'd have to eventually admit the truth—that he knew Angel's sire was there, he knew how she had gotten there, and he'd known she was there for months. It was bad enough he'd have to tell that to Angel, but the prospect of also saying it in front of both Cordelia and Wesley would make it that much more difficult.

"Hey, back off, bud." Doyle argued in Angel's defense. "Maybe it's not business the guy wants to discuss—maybe it's a personal matter. Ya don't see us demanding all the details o' your private life, d'ya?"

"My private life doesn't affect my work." Wesley countered. "If it did, I should think you would inquire as to why. Wouldn't you?"

Angel had stopped in place, and was now hovering at the mouth of his office, his eyes indecisively darting to each of the others, gauging the varied expressions around him.

It was Cordelia who spoke next, her voice had lost much of its edge. That's when it became clear, it wasn't just annoyance she was feeling—there was some hurt, too. "We're not just your employees, Angel, we're your friends." She said meaningfully. "You can trust us. I thought you knew that by now."

Her words seemed to hit their intended target. Doyle saw the instantaneous change in Angel, as he made his decision to come clean. To all of them.

"I'm sorry." Angel stammered to the three sets of eyes firmly focused in his direction. "It's just… I've been so out of it lately, because of her. I saw her—here in town. Last night."

"Oh no, not again." Cordelia sighed, her lips reflexively turning downward into a frown. "Listen, I like Buffy as much as the next—"

"Not Buffy. Darla." Angel corrected, pushing his way through the cluster of people in his office doorway and moving to the front counter. He braced himself against it, with his back turned to the others.

"Darla?" Wesley repeated the name with surprise. "As in the vampire, your sire?"

"I've been dreaming about her for weeks. Thought I was losing my mind." Angel explained with a mirthless laugh. "And then I saw her. She's alive."

"That's impossible." Cordelia pointed out. "She's been a pile of dust for ages now. Ever since you staked her at the Bronze, right?"

"Yeah, I did. I know it's impossible." Angel admitted. "But I also know it was her."

Doyle had remained silent thus far, his eyes firmly planted in Angel's back, debating about what he should say and how he should say it. He felt bad for the role he had played in Angel's recent torment, or rather, the role he hadn't played—he hadn't gone knocking on his best friend's door, encouraging him to confide. That's what Doyle would've done if he had no knowledge of future events; it's what he would've done if he hadn't been paralyzed by fear and indecision. It's what he would have done if he wasn't still clinging to denial that all this was really happening.

Fate was finally catching up with him.

And so far, Doyle hadn't moved. He hadn't even _literally_ moved into the Hyperion, like he knew he should. He was supposed to be there; he was supposed to be there for Angel. Instead he'd been dragging his feet for his own selfish reasons—because he _liked_ being at Cordelia's place. He didn't want to move.

He didn't want to speak. But, he no longer had an excuse for staying silent.

"It's not impossible." Doyle said in a low voice. He felt the weight of all eyes simultaneously turning in his direction, including Angel's, which were the heaviest of all. "Not if she's what Wolfram & Hart brought back in that crate."

Silence blanketed them as each of the others absorbed the implication of Doyle's words in very different ways. Wesley's face held some doubt, unaware that Doyle wasn't merely guessing. Cordelia looked stricken, _knowing_ that he wasn't. Angel just looked angry.

"That's quite a hunch." Wesley observed thoughtfully.

"That's not a hunch." Angel growled, his jaw visibly clenching. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Maybe I should've." Doyle allowed, accepting that he may not have handled things exactly right. He had talked himself into waiting—wanting to salvage the one good thing he saw in that chaotic vision of the future, but terrified of doing it _wrong_. It was a thin and slippery tightrope to get there, and there were undoubtedly obstacles that Doyle couldn't foresee. Even now, he wasn't sure if this conversation would throw things wildly off course or keep them headed in the direction Doyle felt was for the best.

He was gambling and the stakes were ridiculously high. "It wasn't the right time. There was other work to be done first."

Doyle stared directly at Angel, communicating with his eyes what he couldn't say out loud. _This is the way it had to be_.

Angel's slight nod was nearly imperceptible, but it was there. That was some comfort, at least. The vampire may not be thrilled with the turn of events, but he still accepted Doyle as his guide. He still trusted him.

It was Cordelia's prolonged silence that was currently worrying Doyle the most. If she was sniping at him, he knew she'd eventually calm down and forgive him; it was when she was still and quiet—like a tightly coiled snake—that he really had to worry. And currently, he wasn't even entirely sure she was breathing, as motionless as she was.

"If you had a vision, I don't see why you had to be so secretive about it." Wesley interjected, voicing his own irritation at being left in the dark. "Surely the Powers That Be would like us all to know there's a murderous vampire on the loose we need to kill."

"Yeah, well, that's the other thing..." Doyle explained, clearing his throat apprehensively. "She's not a vampire. She's human. And she needs your help, man." As he said the last part to Angel, he saw the incredulity register on Cordelia's face out of the corner of his eye. "She just doesn't realize it yet."

As Doyle turned to face Cordelia and Wesley, he saw something resembling acceptance on the latter man's face. But, Cordelia was quite a different story. Straightening out her skirt, and mumbling an "excuse me," she pushed past Doyle and headed away toward the restroom.

Doyle couldn't chase after her just now—he'd have to make his amends with her later. For now, he focused on his best friend, who looked like he'd just been dealt a significant blow. Angel had been inspecting his shoes, but now he lifted his eyes and Doyle could see the motivation shimmering in those dark pools. The seed of obsession being sown.

"How do we find her?"

* * *

Doyle watched from across the room as Angel weaved through the crowd at Caritas, headed directly for the Host. He'd had no reservations about getting up on the stage that night, as mortifying as it had probably been for him to sing Wang Chung's _Everybody Have Fun Tonight_ for the crowd. Doyle had stood in the back of the room, arms folded over his chest with concern, watching… and wishing he didn't have to listen. It would have taken a lot more drinking to be able to tolerate the song stylings of the tone-deaf vampire with a soul.

Seeing that Angel had found his target, Doyle chugged the remaining dregs of his beer, abandoned the empty the bottle on a shelf beside him, kicked himself off the wall he'd been leaning against and pushed his way through the crowd to hear Angel's future, as told by the Host. He doubted the big fella would mind if Doyle listened in, on account of Doyle already knowing so much of the future already.

"Trust me, handsome. This isn't a path you want to be heading down." The Host was warning Angel as Doyle got within earshot. "Sometimes when your past comes back to haunt you, the best thing you can do is _run_. You follow? Actually, you shouldn't follow _her_. That's the point."

"Where is she?" Angel demanded, without a trace of his usual placid demeanor.

"I can't in good conscience tell you that." The Host replied stirring the icy drink in his hand. "I'm glad you finally decided to dust off those pipes, though. Your aura did not disappoint, I'll tell you that."

"Good conscience?" Angel gritted out. "You have murderous demons in here—you help them. Why draw the line with me?"

"Because, my joint, my rules." The Host said simply. "And I'm saying no."

Angel was simmering, and if he could do violence in this place, it wouldn't be out of the question that he might. As it was, he turned to Doyle, seething with anger. "What? Is it in the rulebook that seers have to be cagey and cryptic?"

"There's no rulebook." Doyle replied regretfully. Angel didn't so much as grunt a response as he stormed out of the club, leaving Doyle alone with the Host, who looked less-than-thrilled by what he'd just witnessed. Doyle cocked his head toward the taller green demon. "There isn't a rulebook, right? 'Cause if there is, I sure as hell didn't get a copy."

The Host sipped his pink-tinted beverage and then narrowed his demon-red eyes at Doyle. "There's only one rule, my friend, and I get the distinct impression you're breaking it." The Host observed reproachfully. "You don't push someone down a path they're not meant to be on. So, why are _you_ doing just that with your pal Angel there?"

"Ya can't see everything, man." Doyle argued.

"Not to brag, but I generally see a whole lot more than you." The Host rebutted. "And I'm guessing you saw one _very_ _specific_ _thing_ that you want so badly, you're willing to ignore all the rest. Trust me, you unlucky charmer you, 'all the rest' isn't the kind of thing you can just ignore. There are consequences."

"I have my reasons." Doyle insisted. "And they're not selfish ones, I promise ya."

With that, Doyle turned to leave, but before he could take so much as a step, the Host's hand fell upon his shoulder, and Doyle couldn't escape the foreboding words that accompanied it. "He'll lose her. You know that." Doyle merely nodded in reply, and the Host continued with his warning. "But you'll lose a lot more."

Doyle froze in place, feeling the ice push through his veins as the meaning of the words he'd just heard permeated deeper. He only had one thing worth losing. Turning back to the Host, he now wore an angry expression, not unlike the one Angel had worn minutes earlier. "Y'know, I'm starting to see what Angel meant about the cagey and cryptic thing—I can't possibly sound that bad?" Doyle wondered with annoyance. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? No, wait. I take that back. I didn't ask for ya to read me; I don't wanna know."

"Oh, I think you have a pretty good idea what I mean." The Host replied, retracting his hand from Doyle's shoulder and taking another sip from his nearly empty glass. "You're a friend, Doyle, which is why I'm warning you. If you keep steering Angel down this dark and twisted path, there will be repercussions for _you_ —and they will be personal."

Doyle swallowed hard as the gravity of what the Host was saying hit him like a ton of bricks. This is why he didn't want to know—Doyle's future was something that shouldn't be factored into all this. It couldn't be. "This isn't about me, man. It's never been about me. It's about Angel."

"Aw, look at you, so selfless these days—no offense, but I didn't know you had it in you. Okay, that's a lie, I did see the whole sacrificial death thing, so clearly I knew you had it in you." The Host said sympathetically. "But, guess what? Regardless of what you may think, you _do_ have a future of your very own again—one that I know you want. So you need to ask yourself if what you're trying to gain for Angel, is worth what you yourself will lose."

"Are ya saying Cordelia's gonna die?" Doyle forced himself to choke out the words he could barely imagine. That was the one deal breaker in all this. If he knew, for a fact, that his actions would lead to Cordelia's death, he couldn't proceed. He wouldn't. He'd rather go back in time and throw himself into the damn Beacon, rather than be culpable in her death.

"It's a possibility..." The Host responded all too quickly. The breath caught in Doyle's lungs and burned as it stayed there longer than it should. After a brief pause that felt like an eternity, the Host continued. "Not a certainty."

"There are lots of possibilities. The future's full of 'em!" Doyle shot back, finally allowing himself to breathe again. He didn't appreciate the Host's scare tactics, but he also knew the psychic demon wouldn't lie to serve his own interests. His words of warning were coming for a reason.

"I'm telling you, Doyle, _you will lose her_. One way or the other." The Host reiterated. "And, take my word for it, you _really_ don't want it to be the other."

"Yeah, well… the future's not written in stone, bud." Doyle declared, in a far more confident voice than he felt. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here."


	13. Dear Boy, Pt 3

**"Dear Boy," Part III**

Doyle pushed through the doors of the Hyperion lobby and entered by himself. He had caught up with Angel outside of Caritas, but had lost him again when the vampire had gotten an "anonymous tip" about one, DeEtta Kramer, who Doyle didn't have to guess was actually Darla. It was obviously a set up, the call probably coming from Lilah Morgan, Lindsey McDonald or any of the other sycophants that worked for Wolfram & Hart. If Angel had actually asked for input on the matter, Doyle would have said as much, but Angel had ordered him back to the hotel to update the others and taken off without bothering to share the address.

It wasn't surprising, considering Angel was probably still harboring some degree of resentment against Doyle for withholding information. And he wasn't the only one.

Wesley, Cordelia and Gunn were all gathered around the reception counter with an array of weapons spread out before them. As Doyle entered the lobby and proceeded toward them, he caught the tail end of their conversation.

"As evil, blood-sucking vampires go, how would you rate Angelus?" Gunn was asking, toying with what looked like a tranquilizer gun.

Wesley responded, "Historically as bad as they come. Especially when he was with his sire, Darla."

"So he and Darla together, bad combo." Gunn inferred. "You got anything stronger than tranqs?"

As Doyle approached, all eyes lifted to face him. Gunn's were the only ones who didn't look mightily pissed off. There was a first time for everything.

"Angel, ah… got an anonymous tip on Darla's whereabouts. He's following up on it." Doyle announced to the group, trying to sound more nonchalant than he felt. "He thought it best I come back here and fill ya in."

Cordelia snorted derisively, but said nothing. Before Doyle could take a stab at trying to penetrate her brick wall of silence, Cordelia turned her back on him and headed toward her desk, taking her seat. Once there she began aggressively clacking away at the computer keyboard.

"Clearly, it's Wolfram & Hart, pulling Angel's strings." Wesley's voice broke in.

"Yeah, and I'm not liking the fact that those strings can lead to _evil_ -Angel." Gunn added.

Doyle's eyes had followed Cordelia, watching her as she sat rigidly at her desk, but he forced himself to focus on Wesley and Gunn, addressing their concerns. "Angel's not gonna turn evil, guys. Trust me."

"If only it were that simple." Wesley remarked, with more than a hint of doubt. He lifted a thick tome from the edge of the reception counter and opened it, flipping pages as he circled toward one of the couches in the center of the lobby. "I've been reading up on Darla—I think the best we can do is find out as much as possible about her, so we'll be ready for whatever Wolfram & Hart try to throw at us."

"Good idea, man." Doyle agreed, feigning some semblance of enthusiasm. Too bad it fell on deaf ears as Wesley walked away. Doyle turned back to Gunn; the only member of the team who wasn't anxious to get away from him. "Listen, I dunno what those two told ya, but I'm not the bad guy here." Doyle explained unnecessarily. "I'm just the messenger. Which means sometimes I know things…"

"None of my business." Gunn said. "But, if I were you, I'd forget about English and start making things right with your girl." Gunn nodded toward Cordelia behind the desk, still taking her frustrations out on the computer keyboard. "He can't punish you half as bad as she can."

Doyle swallowed hard. That was an accurate statement if ever there was one. Nodding his agreement, Doyle stepped around the reception counter to follow Gunn's recommendation. Sheepishly, he sidled up to Cordelia, noting that it had been a long time since she was _this_ furious with him. He was a bit out of practice with the level of groveling that would likely be needed in this scenario.

She didn't look up as he cautiously perched himself on the corner of her desk, looking down at her as she pounded on the keys in front of her. "Cordy, can we talk?"

 _Clack, clack, clack._ Her eyes didn't stray from the computer monitor, but he did see a slight quirk in her eyebrow. She wasn't going to make it easy for him, but she was listening.

"Y'know why I didn't say anything. Y'know why I _couldn't_." He looked back over at Gunn standing at the front counter and dropped his voice so it didn't carry. "I thought ya understood how all this worked."

Cordelia slowed her typing and eventually stopped. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she leaned back in her desk chair and finally gave him eye contact. " _You_ don't even understand how all this works." She said evenly. "That's part of the problem."

"I get that you're not too happy with me at the moment, but there's no reason to go fighting dirty." Doyle glowered in reply.

"I know why you _think_ you couldn't say anything." She clarified. "But, if you want my opinion— _this_ was something you should've told us sooner."

"I couldn't risk it." Doyle said simply, hoping she knew what he meant by that.

"Right, God forbid you should warn us that Angel's old homicidal gal pal was in town." Cordelia snipped. "All that preparing we could've done surely would've been detrimental to the future."

"I told ya." Doyle reminded her. "I said there'd be some things that seem bad, but they could lead to something—"

"Miraculous, I remember." Cordelia finished his thought. "But, this isn't a little bad, or even a medium bad. This is Angel-going-mental-again, which as bads go, has to be the biggest and the baddest!"

"I think y'might be overreacting just a bit here—" Doyle tried to get a word in edgewise, but Cordelia narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, cutting him off at the pass.

"Think about it, Doyle! Wolfram & Hart could've brought back anything in that crate, but they chose Angel's _sire_. A woman he was in a relationship with for centuries!" She elaborated. "They want him to do it with her. They probably wanted him to do it with that Bethany chick, too. And I'm sure they'd dangle Buffy herself in front of him, if they could. _That's_ their big plan—not to kill Angel, but to make him evil again. Can't you see that?!"

"Yeah, I get that." Doyle agreed, now seeing the fear in her eyes—the fear that stoked the anger. "That doesn't mean it'll happen, Cordy. For one thing—he has us to see it doesn't."

"I really hope you're right." Cordelia said, turning back to hit a button on her keyboard with added emphasis. From a few feet away, the printer lurched to life and began spitting out whatever she had called up on her computer screen. "Because, I don't think I have to remind you who Angelus will target first."

She stood up abruptly and headed toward the printer to scoop up the paperwork she'd just printed, and then swiftly headed around the reception counter to where Gunn was located, leaving Doyle all alone perched on the side of her desk.

As Doyle watched her walk away from him, the Host's ominous words echoed in his brain.

He could stop all this. Probably. Maybe. Or, maybe not. Maybe it was already too late. He had already made his choice, so it seemed. He couldn't change it now, and even if he could… would he really want to?

The choice he'd made was for Angel. He'd continue down this path for Angel. And, hopefully, when he made it to the other end, he'd still have something left for himself.

He could only hope.

* * *

"Where is he?!"

Doyle nearly jumped out of his skin as Kate burst through the front doors of the hotel lobby with an entire swat team on her heels. He had been brooding quietly in a chair in the corner, an open book on his lap in a show of solidarity with the others who were in full-blown research-mode. Every detail there was to find out about Darla, they intended to find out. And Doyle had maintained the illusion of helping them, even if he was much too distracted by the silent waves of hostility he could still feel flowing in his direction, compliments of his girlfriend.

"Basement, attic, every room. He's extremely dangerous, bullets won't necessarily do the trick. Everyone's on channel two, you see him, you call me." Kate barked out her orders to her squad and then marched right up to Doyle, causing him to hastily stand up before he had a proper handle on his book. It went tumbling to the floor, landing with a loud thwack, but that didn't deter Kate from her mission. "Where are you hiding your boss, Doyle?"

"I'm not." Doyle sputtered, watching nervously as a stream of cops hit the stairs, both upstairs and down. Another slipped into the back office, while still others proceeded straight out to the back courtyard. "He's not here. Out on a case, as it so happens."

"No, _as it so happens_ , he was out murdering a guy by the name of Stephen Kramer and kidnapping the man's wife." Kate shot back icily. "Which is why you'd better not be lying to me—or, I'll arrest you for obstruction of justice."

"That's impossible." Doyle claimed, but he found that he was arguing with Kate's back. She had already turned on her heel and stormed toward the rear office to do some searching of her own.

"Not impossible if Angel got groiny with a certain blonde." Cordelia commented as she and Wesley crossed the lobby to stand beside Doyle, their eyes also following after the policewoman. Grabbing Doyle's arm, Cordelia lifted it up so she could check his watch. "Boy, Darla sure moves fast. Angel's only been with her a few hours and already he's completed the trifecta—sex, murder, abduction—hey, is that a scratch?"

Doyle frowned at her inappropriate joke, lightly jerking his arm out of her grasp and using his other hand to cover the face of his watch from her prying eyes. "That's not what's going on here. Kramer's the name Angel got from the anonymous source. He's obviously being set up, yeah?"

"If you say so." Cordelia repeated with a facetious eyebrow raise.

"Listen, I don't know about any of ya'll, but if Angel's gone all Helter Skelter, I will be staking his ass." Gunn declared, holding up a sizable stake to illustrate his point. He'd been napping on the circular couch when Kate and her crew burst in, but now he was a bundle of nervous energy, ready for action.

"Hey, bud, put that thing away!" Doyle ordered. "There'll be no staking here."

"Gunn, please. Let's not lose our heads." Wesley said diplomatically. "Considering Wolfram & Hart's involvement, I'd venture a guess that Doyle's probably right."

"See the words 'guess' and 'probably' don't exactly work for me." Gunn rebutted. "And I'm aiming to keep my head, hence the stake."

"New guy has the right idea." Kate interrupted, reappearing from the back office. "If you work for a vampire, it's only a matter of time before he turns on you. Smarter idea—don't work for a vampire."

"He's done a lot of good, Kate." Doyle reminded her. "Y'know that. Ya used to trust that."

"I don't anymore." She spat back, giving Doyle what could only be described as a death glare. "I don't trust anyone who isn't completely human."

There was no mistake there—that was a direct insult to the half-demon standing before her. Not that Doyle could say it was all that surprising, but it still stung.

"Well, what if there was a human who used to be a four hundred year old vampire?" Cordelia mused. "Would you trust her more than Angel? Because I sure as hell wouldn't… did I mention she was also a prostitute back in the day?"

Kate's eyes turned toward Cordelia with perplexity, and Doyle had to smile to himself, if not visibly. He could've kissed Cordelia for her sassy remark—not that she'd let him, at the moment. Doyle turned to Wesley gesturing toward the rows of bookshelves in the back. "Think ya can find a picture of Darla in one o' those books?"

Wesley's face lit up with excitement as he caught on to what Doyle was thinking. He nodded excitedly as he headed toward the bookshelves. "Yes, yes. I do believe I can."

Kate glanced over at Wesley's excited retreat and then turned back to Doyle, attitude firmly in place. "Who's Darla?"


	14. Dear Boy, Pt 4

**"Dear Boy," Part IV**

Angel sat alone in the darkness, watching the city lights through his open balcony doors. Darla's taunts still echoing in his head. _God, doesn't want you. But, I still do._

She might be human now, but she still sounded like the same old Darla. Still smelled like her. Still tasted like her. The only part that seemed different was her ability to flit off into the sunlight, leaving Angel in the shadows. Alone. Wondering.

When push came to shove, would he kill her, if he had to?

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._

He wasn't looking for company, but he also knew the man on the other side of the door wasn't likely to go away until he got his audience. Angel stood from his chair, walked to the front door, flipped the lock open and turned to walk back to his chair without bothering to open the door.

A moment later, Doyle entered the room, a bottle of Scotch in hand. He held it up for display, gesturing toward Angel's kitchen. "I brought the good stuff tonight, man. Can I grab us some glasses?"

Angel nodded without looking at Doyle, but could see with his peripheral vision that the half demon had moved to the kitchen to search for the glassware. He listened to the clanking of the glasses as he stared back out into the dark night outside. "I thought you might come with a tranquilizer gun instead."

Doyle chuckled from across the room, successfully locating and grabbing two glasses and heading back toward the seating area where Angel waited. "Ah, well… Wesley has it." Doyle admitted, as he took the chair across from Angel, placed the glasses on the table and began to pour generously. "He's out in the hall. Would've come running if I screamed."

That caused Angel to turn back to the doorway, trying to sense whether or not Doyle was telling the truth or merely joking, as he so often did. Doyle held out one of the glasses toward Angel, indicating that he should stop sniffing around for Wesley and start drinking instead.

"I'm sorry for not telling ya 'bout Darla sooner." Doyle said earnestly. "I made a judgment call. I'll never be sure if it was the right one or not, but I thought it was at the time."

Angel didn't reply, but he reached out to take the glass, keeping his eyes trained on the amber liquid inside, rather than the man seated across from him.

"The day-to-day stuff we've been doing the last few months, that's still what's important here." Doyle continued. "If you're ever gonna get to that pot o' gold at the end of the rainbow, ya can't give up the mission. Not for Darla, or anything else."

"I understand." Angel replied in a muted tone. The truth was, he held no resentment toward Doyle for keeping Darla's existence a secret. It wasn't Doyle's fault that Wolfram & Hart had perceived a weakness in Angel, and obtained a weapon to exploit that weakness. Doyle was just the messenger. "Whether I found out about her today or months ago, she's…"

"A distraction?" Doyle guessed, as Angel's words petered off.

"Dangerous." Angel amended, finally looking up at Doyle, letting his friend see the deep seeded fear that now lived inside him. "I could never feel happiness with Darla when I didn't have a soul, but it's different now… I care."

"Ya love her?" Doyle marveled, raising a brow in surprise.

Angel shook his head noncommittally, having no answer for that question. "I wasn't capable of love when I was with her, but we were lovers for 150 years. And I remember all of it."

"Some things ya can't erase, yeah?" Doyle mused, rolling the liquid around in his glass, but surprisingly never taking a sip. "I get why you're scared to have her around. But ya have to trust yourself—and me. She's not as dangerous as y'think—and she has a soul now. Which means she falls into the category of those we're generally willing to save."

Now it was Angel's turn to be surprised. "You want me to save her."

"Don't you?" Doyle wondered, before lifting his glass to his lips and emptying it in one giant gulp.

* * *

Doyle shuffled through Cordelia's dim living room—she'd left one light on for him in the hall, at least. And she hadn't changed the locks. Those were good signs. It meant she still wanted him there. The next question was if she wanted him anywhere close to her.

Arriving at her bedroom door, he took a deep breath before opening it slowly, so as not to let it creak and wake her from sleep. But instead of finding her burrowed beneath her covers, she was sitting up in bed with a book open in her lap. Clover was nestled beside her, in a tiny ball on his pillow. "You waited up?" He said with some degree of surprise. "I'm glad…"

As she looked up at him, her face was an unreadable mask and he wasn't sure whether or not he was about to get his ass chewed out for the second time in one day. He almost hoped he would—he much preferred fighting to the cold shoulder.

"Ah… I can, uh… sleep on the couch." Doyle offered, shifting awkwardly in the bedroom doorway. "Or, if you're willing to let me beg for forgiveness, I'd really prefer that option."

"Doyle." She finally spoke, her impenetrable façade unwavering. "Will you shut up and come to bed?"

That's when he saw it, the small crack in her veneer that let a dribble of warmth sneak out. She patted the bed beside her, to further confirm that he was welcome there. He didn't need to be told twice—he quickly unbuttoned his shirt and removed his pants, leaving him in his usual sleeping attire—a t-shirt and boxers. Then he slipped under the covers on his side of the bed, carefully removing the snoring kitten from his pillow, so she wouldn't be crushed. He placed Clover down gently in his lap, and she mewled softly as she readjusted herself after the disruption.

Cordelia closed her book and placed it on her bedside table, and then rolled toward him, wearing a rather weak smile, but a smile all the same. "You were drinking."

"I had a drink with Angel, yeah." Doyle confirmed, still treading carefully. He reached out to gently touch her arm—caressing it softly, testing the waters. She didn't react, either to welcome his affection, or to push it away.

"He okay?" She inquired.

"He's not evil, if that's what you're asking." Doyle responded, still running his fingertips over her arm. His touch was featherlight.

"That's not what I was asking." She clarified.

"Yeah, he's okay." Doyle answered softly. "What about us, huh? Are we okay?"

He watched as her eyes softened, and a wave of relief went through his chest, followed by her arms which slid around his body as she moved closer and nestled against him. He eagerly wrapped his arms around her as well, holding her close and kissing the top of her head gratefully. "We're okay." She murmured into his body before lifting her head to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry I got so mad. I know you warned me…"

"I get it, darlin'." He reassured her, running his fingers through her lengthy, dark locks. "Dating a guy who's seen the future isn't always easy, yeah?"

"I'm really scared, Doyle." She confessed softly. "I think that's why I was so angry about Darla. This is really dangerous territory—and you're always saying how you're just guessing."

"There is a lot of guesswork involved, I can't pretend like I have all the answers." Doyle agreed. "But have a little faith in me. I wouldn't do anything I thought would put us all in jeopardy. What's more, have a little faith in Angel."

"I do have faith." She promised. "If you're letting this happen the way it happened before, it's because you believe things will work out. Angel isn't going to lose his soul; he's going to save hers. And _that_ would definitely be something I'd call miraculous."

She was wrong, and he hated lying to her, even by default. "I know he has to try."

That much was the truth anyway. Angel did have to try. Succeeding was another story.

Cordelia sat up a little straighter and wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Just please don't tell me she's going to join the team. I'm willing to accept that we have to help her, but I'm never _ever_ going to like her. Not even a little bit."

Doyle had to chuckle at that imagery, although there was a sad tinge to his mirth, knowing what he knew about Darla's fate. He settled further back into the pillows, and urged Cordelia ever closer against his body. "No, she won't be part of the team."

"Well, in that case, I suppose I have to forgive you." Cordelia announced, creeping upward so she could reach his lips and kiss him sweetly.

And she continued to kiss him, somewhat less sweetly, signaling that their fight was most definitely over.

"Raaaar!" Clover pounced on Doyle's shoulder, digging her small claws into the material of his t-shirt. Cordelia broke the kiss and reeled back to giggle at the small fluffball now cuddling against Doyle's face. He retracted one of his arms from around Cordelia to catch the small kitten and scratch her head affectionately.

"Looks like I have some serious competition." Cordelia noted with a grin, joining him in petting the small creature who went tumbling down Doyle's chest to land between them. "This cat loves you like crazy… So do I, for that matter."

"The feeling's mutual." Doyle said with a matching smile, holding his two loves close to him. "So, does this mean I don't have to grovel? 'Cause I don't necessarily object to it." He waggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, making his subtext clear. He'd always been quite fond of making things up to her—perhaps, it was why he still pushed her buttons as often as he did.

"Oh, you should still grovel." She assured him. "In the morning. I will expect both makeup sex—in the shower, of course—and pancakes. Not necessarily in that order."

"Wait. Are ya saying my pancakes are better than sex?" He asked incredulously, not sure if he should be flattered or insulted. While edible, he never thought his pancakes were all _that_ great.

"No, I'm saying you'd better get your butt out of bed super-early and have my breakfast ready when I wake up." She clarified with a mischievous smirk. "And then we can save the _best_ groveling for last."

That sounded more like it.

"Your wish is my command." Doyle murmured, leaning over to give her a goodnight kiss. She obliged and then rolled over and clicked off the lamp on her bedside table.

"Goodnight, Doyle." She chirped, rolling back toward him to fall asleep on his shoulder, as she so often liked to do.

"Goodnight, Princess." He replied, cradling Cordelia's warm body in the dark.

Soon his other shoulder was occupied as well, as he felt Clover prowl across his chest to take occupancy on the empty side of his pillow. That was her favorite place to sleep. And Doyle's favorite place was right in the middle—a soft head on each shoulder.

Laying there in the dark, Doyle was reminded once again of the Host's unsettling words, but he quickly shook them off. What he had here felt so perfect—so right, so strong, so _safe_. He couldn't imagine anything changing this; he wouldn't _let_ it, plain and simple. He had to believe he could do it—Doyle could keep that which he held dear, while navigating Angel down a difficult path.

This wasn't poker, this was life. No one had to lose anything **.** If Doyle did his job right, they could all win.

* * *

 **A/N- Doyle's intentions for the future will remain vague for a few more chapters (although some folks may guess ahead of time; that's not a bad thing). Eventually his goals will be VERY clear (so, there's no need to go scrambling for your Angel DVDs trying to figure anything out, hehe). Even though I've written this assuming that everyone has some knowledge of the series, I also want it to stand on its own as a good story, whether you know the original episodes by heart or not. I sometimes play coy with certain details in order to build suspense, but you will not be confused forever, just bare with me for a little while longer. :)**


	15. Guise Will Be Guise

**"Guise Will Be Guise"**

"Ewwwww. I didn't know you owned anything this offensive and I really didn't want to know. I'm going to have nightmares."

Careful to keep it as far away from her body as physically possible, Cordelia held up what had to be the single most hideous garment she'd ever laid eyes on. It had varying color blocks in such subtle hues as taxi-cab yellow and traffic-light green, but that wasn't the most eye-scorching part. On the back was the silhouette of a naked woman, leaning on her elbows and tossing her head back. Cordelia was pretty sure it was a logo most often seen on the back of pick-up trucks in Alabama or the window of the Body Shop strip club in West Hollywood. "Please tell me you lost a bet."

Doyle furrowed his brow as he stared at the shirt she held out between her index finger and her thumb as if it was something infectious. "Where'd ya find that?" He wondered. "Haven't seen it in years."

"It was wedged behind your bottom drawer." She explained, tossing it into a garbage bag at her feet. "Probably the Powers That Be doing you a favor. That's definitely one for the incinerator pile."

"There's an incinerator pile?" Doyle asked with concern.

"There is now." Cordelia confirmed, pushing the now-empty drawer back into its slot at the bottom of Doyle's shoddy wooden dresser.

Cordelia had been helping Doyle pack up his old apartment for the better part of the day, while Angel was safely occupied with what had to be the dullest job imaginable—guarding the very wealthy, Ms. Virginia Bryce for the next 24 hours. How hard could that be? Probably not as hard as the promise of a rather hefty payday would suggest.

Thank goodness Doyle had convinced Angel to sideline his little retreat to the woods this weekend—Angel had wanted to meditate the Darla thoughts right out of his head, but what he really needed to do was put his nose to the grindstone—and bring in some cold hard cash while he was at it! Okay, so maybe it wasn't entirely Doyle's idea. Maybe he'd only done it at Cordelia's behest—after all, they _really_ needed to pay this month's rent. And, assuming Wesley didn't ruin anything by playing back-up guy (aka, using a thinly-veiled excuse to babysit Angel), they would!

Cordelia supposed they couldn't be too careful, but she was relatively certain Darla wouldn't show up inside the fortress-like Bryce mansion, where Angel was staying for the duration of this particular case. Imagine all the expensive antiques Wesley could potentially knock over… seriously, if he broke something it'd _so_ be coming out of his paycheck.

Doyle had gone back to distractedly pulling things off his bookshelf and shoving them into boxes as slowly as humanly possible. Cordelia noticed that he'd even taken the time to wrap a few of the ugly masks he'd had displayed on the shelves, and idly wondered if they were worth anything, or if they were merely sentimental. Either that, or he was simply stalling, as he seemed to be doing all day. Probably the stalling, since Doyle didn't appear to have anything remotely sentimental left in this old dump of an apartment. Cordelia wasn't even sure why he wanted to pack it up and move it along with him—he'd be better off leaving it for the next tenant to throw away. She noticed that he had paused completely and was now flipping through a marble notebook he had open in his hands. At that rate, the packing was going to take double the time it should. Or longer.

She stood up straight, wiping her hands off on her faded old jeans—the jeans she saved for housework and manual labor. Not that she did much of either, but everyone needed a "working" pair of jeans, right? "Hey, earth to Doyle. Packing means putting things in boxes, not reading every book on your bookshelf while the boxes remain empty."

"Ah… yeah. Right." He looked a little flustered as he slipped the notebook into the box at his feet and went back to taking other items off the shelf.

Blowing a stray piece of hair out of her eyes, Cordelia opened the next drawer in the dresser to empty it as well, and immediately found her favorite shirt of his. A nice deep blue long-sleeve, with a normal sized collar that made his eyes look even more amazing than usual. He didn't wear this one nearly enough. She snuck a peek over at him to make sure he was occupied, and then held the shirt up to her nose to smell it. The aroma of stale smoke overwhelmed whatever detergent he'd once used to launder it. There was, however, a key element missing—the shirt didn't smell nearly enough like him, having not been worn anytime recently. Too bad. She was strongly considering snagging it for herself. Something of his to keep close to her while he was sleeping elsewhere….

She sighed at that thought. She'd been sighing all day. And if she wanted to stop sighing, she needed to say something about it. It was her way, after all.

His back was still turned away from her as she blurted out the words she couldn't keep contained any longer. "I don't think you should move into the Hyperion."

"Huh?" He looked over his shoulder at her, wearing a puzzled expression. "Don't tell me you're having a change of heart about this old place?"

"Ugh, no. It's still gross here and if I never see it again, it'll be too soon." Cordelia clarified, scrunching her nose in disgust. She stepped closer to him, as he abandoned his packing to give her his undivided attention. She still held his blue shirt, and found herself involuntarily hugging it to herself as she spoke to him. "I was just wondering if, y'know… you'd maybe want to move in with me instead?" She asked in her smallest voice; the one she only used when she felt really vulnerable. She dropped her eyes to the floor and toyed with the fabric in her hands nervously. "I mean, technically, you've already been living there, we just never made it official. So, I was thinking we could do that. _Officially_."

She turned a pair of hope-filled eyes in his direction and was met with one very apprehensive-looking half-demon. Doyle's jaw hung slightly ajar, and he closed it again without saying a word. A sure sign that he was taken by surprise and utterly off-guard. Not exactly the reaction she had been looking for.

"Oh." Cordelia replied, seeing his less-than-enthusiastic expression, and feeling the sudden stabbing pain of rejection in her chest. "Um… wow, or this is the moment I prove that people really _can_ die of embarrassment. Let's just forget I said anything. Clearly, I've just turned into the stereotypical girlfriend scaring the stereotypical commitment-phobe guy by moving too fast. Cosmo's right, half-demon or not, men are all the same."

She turned away from him, wringing his shirt in her hands and wishing she could bury herself in one of the boxes she'd just packed. Once she choked down the mortification she'd probably be angry, but for now she just wanted to pretend that conversation hadn't happened and get through the rest of the day without reliving it.

"Cordy, hey, wait a sec." Doyle said, stumbling over the boxes in his path to get closer to her. She didn't turn toward him, afraid of what he'd see on her face, which was complete and utter humiliation. She felt his hands land on her arms from behind and instantly tensed up. "Please, look at me, darlin'.

He gently urged her around to face him and she dropped her eyes to his belt buckle, feeling the heat on her cheeks as his eyes took her in. "It's okay, Doyle." She mumbled toward the floor. "You aren't ready. I get it. Let's not make it a whole big thing."

"No, ya really don't get it." He insisted, slipping his finger under her chin to lift it upward so she'd be forced to look him in the eye. His pale eyes were clear and twinkling with earnestness as he spoke to her. "I _am_ ready. I've _been_ ready, which is why ya didn't see me rushing to leave your place, yeah? I was sorta hoping ya wouldn't notice that I'd already been living there—at least, not until you were ready, too."

She furrowed her brow, not willing to believe his rapid about face, even though it came in a convincingly sincere package. "So, why did you look like I asked you to slap on a pair of handcuffs and throw away the key when I suggested making it official?" Cordelia questioned.

"I was… ah, thinkin' 'bout Angel, actually." Doyle admitted with a small shrug.

"Okay, that's probably not going to help your case." Cordelia shot back.

Doyle brought his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, making an attempt to refocus himself. "Moving into the hotel—that was supposed to be for his sake. So I'd be around more, to help him through the Darla thing. But, I'm thinking… it might be overkill, yeah? I can move in with you and still be there for him."

"He's 247 years old. He doesn't need a babysitter, despite what Wesley may think." Cordelia reasoned. "Being there for him, doesn't mean living with him." Her tone changed, lightening up into a slightly more teasing manner. "Unless that's just a flimsy excuse. Maybe you just want a place to take loose women with questionable morals, huh?"

"That sounds like something a commitment-phobe might do." Doyle said good-naturedly. "But, I'll have y'know, I'm nothing of the sort. Commitment is my middle name."

"I thought Francis was your middle name." She teased.

"I have more than one." He insisted. "It's an Irish thing."

Cordelia tilted her head at him and let out a faux-gasp. "Are you saying Cosmo was wrong?"

Doyle chuckled down at her, and then lifted his left hand, drawing her attention to the silver ring he always wore on his middle finger. "Y'know what this means, Princess?"

"That you have one accessory you're completely committed to?" Cordelia suggested, gazing down at the intricately designed ring. "I've never seen you take it off. That's also an Irish thing, right? I'm pretty sure Angel used to have one."

"It is Irish." Doyle confirmed. "It's called a Claddagh and I've been wearing it for my entire adult life. When ya first met me, I always had the heart pointing away from me—that's 'cause I was unattached. Looking for love."

She stared down at the symbols on his ring, seeing the heart in question with a pair of hands holding it and a crown on top. She brought her fingertips up to his knuckles, brushing them lightly over the ring with curiosity. "The heart is pointing towards you now." She observed, feeling a slight flutter of anticipation in her belly as she guessed what that probably meant.

"That's 'cause I found what I was looking for." Doyle affirmed, interlacing his fingers with hers, but keeping the ring in full view. "Means I'm taken. There's no more looking. You're the only one I want, Cordelia. The _only_ one."

Cordelia's breath caught in her throat as she once again looked up into those pale bluish-green orbs and was sucked right into the vortex of what it meant to be loved by Doyle. It made her insides feel like they were melting, and nothing could have stopped her from grabbing him and kissing him—which is precisely what she did. For one thing, kissing him seemed rather appropriate on the heels of the beautiful words he'd just said to her. For another, what could she possibly say to top that?

When she finally stopped kissing him, she was breathless and a little dizzy. She pushed him away rather abruptly, wiping her lips and spinning around to head back to the dresser. She wordlessly began packing at an even more rapid pace.

"Ah… y'alright there, darlin'? You're looking a bit flushed." Doyle noted with both amusement and concern.

"Pack faster." She demanded, gesturing to the bookshelf. "I'll be damned if we have one more romantic moment in this filthy, disgusting pigsty!"

Doyle chuckled, before turning back to the bookshelf. He obediently went back to packing, and this time, it didn't look like he was doing much stalling at all.


	16. Darla

**"Darla"**

"Darla, Anglo-Saxon derivation, meaning 'dear one.' Huh, didn't come into common usage until more than a 100 years after she was born." Angel closed the book he'd been browsing through and set it aside, heading back to the bookshelf to grab another. "He must have given it to her—I didn't even know her real name."

Wesley lifted his own head out of a different book and turned to Doyle with a now all-too familiar look of dismay, waiting until Angel was out of earshot—or more accurately, forgetting that a vampire's hearing was far better than a human's. "He's sounding rather nostalgic, wouldn't you say? I find it rather disconcerting."

"It's normal to be nostalgic about the past." Doyle replied without concern, even though he knew that Angel's so-called nostalgia could probably be classified as something much closer to obsession, if the dozens upon dozens of Darla-sketches papering Angel's apartment floor were any indication. That was a detail he was better off not sharing with the nervous nelly standing beside him.

"Not when one's past involves being the scourge of Europe." Wesley argued with a pointed look.

Doyle dug the newspaper out from beneath the pile of books that littered the front reception desk, skimming the headlines for anything of interest. "We should keep looking for leads, yeah?" Doyle gestured to Wesley to continue looking through the book he had open in front of him—not that Doyle expected the research to be all that helpful. They were searching for Darla in a city of millions and she wasn't exactly camped out on her own, left to her own devices. She had the help of Wolfram & Hart, who had endless resources at their disposal. "I don't think I have to remind ya that she's human now, which means she falls within our terms of service."

"There are plenty of humans capable of great evil, Doyle. Particularly those who've had four centuries of practice." Wesley muttered in reply, even as he obediently turned back to his open book and began skimming the pages for more information on Darla.

"Why is she human, anyway? She was a vampire when she died, shouldn't she still be a vampire?" Cordelia wondered aloud from her place on the circular sofa, flipping through pages of computer printouts. Gunn sat across from her on one of the plush lobby chairs, doing his best to help with the research, but Doyle could see it wasn't his forte. He had barely cracked open a book and looked to be dozing. At least he didn't snore.

Wesley lifted his head out of his book once again, giving Cordelia a weary look. "Wolfram & Hart resurrected Darla from the depths of hell." He pointed out.

"Yeah, so?" Cordelia replied offhandedly.

"I'm just saying, it isn't an exact science." Wesley answered, removing his glasses to rub his tired eyes.

"It ain't science at all." Gunn piped up from his chair, apparently more awake than Doyle had realized. "It's magic… By the way, have I told ya'll how creepy I think all this magic stuff is?"

"Ugh, _magic_. Don't even get me started." Cordelia complained. "All it's ever done is cause trouble—turning people into their Halloween costumes, making the entire female population of Sunnydale fall in love with Xander Harris, of all people. Why couldn't it do something useful for once? Like, I dunno, help jumpstart the career of a very beautiful, talented and deserving young actress like yours truly. For example. That wouldn't even take very _much_ magic."

Doyle chuckled quietly as he refolded the unhelpful newspaper and tossed it on top of the pile of Darla-related books.

Wesley raised his brows looking at Cordelia with mild curiosity. "Oh, are you still doing that? I thought you'd given it up."

Cordelia's head shot up and her eyes flashed with indignation. "I have not!" She insisted. "I am still very much an actress!"

"You audition for anything other than demon bait lately?" Gunn goaded her.

She fluttered her eyelids dramatically and sat back on the sofa with her arms folded in a defensive posture. "Maybe I've let the auditions slip a little. But, _you_ try being bright and shiny with all the crazy hours we keep around here. Showing up with bags under my eyes means I might as well not show up at all."

"I'm sure you'll be right back at it when things settle down a bit, yeah?" Doyle jumped in, circling around the reception desk and making a beeline over to the circular sofa in order to plop down beside her. He sat back, crossed his legs at the ankles and threw his arm casually around her shoulders in a show of support.

He could've pointed out that not only had she stopped auditioning, but she was also rarely attending her acting class as of late. In fact, he couldn't be absolutely sure she was even still enrolled in an acting class.

Doyle wasn't sure if he should be concerned or not—seeing that she was so obviously neglecting her acting dreams. There was a part of him that worried she'd regret all this someday. All the time and effort she put into fighting evil—wishing instead that she'd spent more time rehearsing and auditioning. And if she did regret it—how much of that would she blame on him? He was nothing, if not supportive when it came to her aspirations of fame; but he also, selfishly, liked having her at his side. He could never bring himself to discourage her from fighting the good fight. Not when she was so good at it.

Of course, if she really, truly wanted to be an actress, he sincerely hoped she'd find the time to pursue it again, one of these days.

"You bet I will." Cordelia avowed, dropping her eyes back to the paperwork in her lap. "International superstardom is my destiny… right after we rid the world of evil."

All three men present in the room stifled their respective snickers, as they too went back to their research. Another moment later and Angel reappeared from the recesses of the back office carrying his sketchpad, which Doyle could see featured yet another sketch of Darla's face. "We should see if Wolfram & Hart own any property with a view." Angel said absently, as he proceeded toward the staircase. "Darla always loved something with a view."

* * *

"Did I just hear him say he's been to hell?" Gunn muttered to Doyle, keeping his voice low and his eyes on the now agitated vampire pacing the floor with the phone pushed up to his ear.

Doyle leaned over and mumbled a reply. "Ah… yeah, he spent about a century being tortured in a hell dimension. It's a long story."

"Darla… Darla!" Angel shouted into the phone.

He stood listening for another moment before slamming the receiver down, causing both Gunn and Doyle to snap to attention, along with the owners of the other two sets of eyes that had been watching Angel intently.

"It was Darla." Angel announced unnecessarily, immediately starting a frantic search through his pockets and then the surface of Cordelia's desk, most likely hunting for his car keys. "She needs my help."

"You don't say." Cordelia remarked dryly, stepping forward to easily locate Angel's keys, hidden underneath a pile of unpaid bills. "I guess you'll be needing these then."

"Yeah." He said distractedly, grabbing his black duster off the nearby coat rack and hastily yanking it on.

"I think you mean 'thanks.'" She corrected with a frustrated shake of her head.

"Ya need backup, man." Doyle recommended. "Could be a set up, like last time. I'll come along. Maybe Gunn, too?"

"Just point me in the right direction, bro." Gunn agreed, opening his hands in demonstration of his willingness to take the fight to the streets, should the need for a fight arise.

"No, I need to do this myself." Angel objected, straightening out his coat and then beginning a brisk walk to the front doors, keys in hand. "Stay here and… uh, just stay here. I'll call later."

Wesley stepped into his path, holding up his hands in the universal sign for halt. "Angel, think this through, for a moment. This is very likely a trap."

"I know that, Wesley. But, it doesn't matter. She asked for my help, and I can't turn my back on her." Angel said urgently. "I know what it's like to suddenly wake up with a soul after centuries of evil—to feel everything all at once. It's torture. And I can't let her go through it alone."

Cordelia had moved to stand beside Doyle, also lodging her objection. "Listen, boss, I think we all agree—you shouldn't go off half-cocked—or, even worse, _all_ -cocked—to see Darla."

Doyle gave her a subtle side-eye—only Cordelia could have worded it quite that way. Despite all the support she'd given to Doyle in the previous weeks, backing him up on the Darla-issue every step of the way, she clearly hadn't forgotten the underlying danger of Angel's ever-growing obsession.

"We don't all agree." Was Angel's guttural response, without so much as a twitch in Cordelia's direction. "Stand aside, Wesley."

The lanky Brit still stood in Angel's path, making his final stand against his boss walking into a probable trap. "You may be right about what she's going through. She may be experiencing all of this exactly as _you_ did. But Angel, you yourself wandered for a hundred years without ever seeking redemption."

"That's right. I sought _her_." Angel said plainly, navigating easily around Wesley and successfully making his way out the front door.

"If these Wolfram & Hart cats are aiming to take Angel out of the game, they're doing a bang up job so far." Gunn noted. "Brother can't see straight right now."

"Which means _we_ have to see straight for him." Cordelia declared, speaking the lines usually reserved for Doyle. She slipped her hand into his and gave it a gentle squeeze. "It's our job."

He squeezed back, more thankful than ever to have her by his side.

* * *

Doyle plunked the two empty glasses down beside Angel on the small table and immediately began pouring. This had become their nightly ritual—Angel brooded, they drank, they talked, Doyle remained mum about the futility of their current efforts. After they were done, Doyle would return home to a waiting Cordelia, who never fell asleep until he crawled into bed beside her. She'd taken to reading in bed with Clover warming Doyle's empty pillow. And recently she'd actually started reading the books Doyle recommended rather than the fashion magazines and terrible romance novels she had seemed so fond of before.

It was bittersweet for Doyle to know that he could retreat into domestic bliss, while Angel had only darkness. It was even worse knowing that Doyle was essentially ushering Angel toward that darkness, hoping that he'd still be able to guide his friend when things became pitch black. Hoping he wasn't misjudging things. Hoping they were still on the right track, despite everything the Host had said to the contrary.

"She said she wanted my help." Angel spoke quietly, as he lifted his full glass of whiskey from the table and let it hover just below his lips. "But she didn't. All she wanted was for me to turn her." He tossed the drink back, emptying the glass and slamming it back down with muted frustration. "She begged me, Doyle. _Begged_ me to make the pain stop."

"I'm sure it was hard seeing 'er go through all that—must bring back some old, unpleasant memories, yeah?" Doyle observed. "Goes without saying, you were right not to give her what she wanted."

"But, I can't stop her from getting it elsewhere." Angel lamented. "I thought I could walk her through the denial of what she is, straight into acceptance."

"And she chose bargaining instead." Doyle countered, lifting his own glass to his lips and feeling the burn as it went all the way down his esophagus, landing in his empty stomach. He didn't finish the drink in one shot, instead swirling the remaining liquid around the bottom of the glass.

"She ran away from me." Angel said flatly. "And I didn't stop her. I just… let her go."

"Don't beat yourself up, man. Ya tried." Doyle reminded him, leaning forward in his chair encouragingly. "And you'll try again."

That got Angel's attention. He looked Doyle straight in the eye, asking and answering questions in his own mind, but never speaking any of them out loud. Instead, he pushed his empty glass in Doyle's direction nodding for him to refill it, which Doyle happily did.

"Just to be clear… you're not actually considering her request, are ya?" Doyle asked, as he pushed the now-full glass back toward Angel.

"No." Angel answered without hesitation, snatching the glass back up in his hand. "I want to save her life, not take it from her."

Doyle breathed out a silent sigh of relief at the admission he'd been hoping to hear. "That's exactly why you're the right man for the job."

"I'm not a man." Angel reminded his friend.

"Coulda fooled me." Doyle replied, raising his glass in silent salute and then knocking it back.

The path was dark enough as it was. Doyle needed to know the man he trusted implicitly was still there, and so far, despite all the distraction, Angel was still Angel underneath. It was Doyle's job to make sure he remained there through whatever came next. Without trust, none of this was ever going to work.

And Doyle really wanted it to work. For Angel's sake more than anyone's.


	17. The Shroud of Rahmon, Pt 1

**"The Shroud of Rahmon," Pt I**

Doyle squinted up at the night sky, where not a single glimmer could be spotted through the dense cloud coverage. He and Cordelia were on the roof of the Hyperion, basking in the bluish-green glow of the neon sign several feet above their heads, and trying to ignore it in favor of the more scenic glowing bodies even further up. It was an impossible feat thanks to the city light pollution and the overcast sky, but he focused on the positive—they were together and they were alone.

"Well, this is a bust." Cordelia commented, breaking the comfortable silence they'd been previously enveloped in. "How many stars do you think Wesley is seeing right now?"

Doyle's brows shot skyward at her unexpected comment, which landed like a bucket of cold water on what he'd previously considered a fairly romantic mood. "Huh?" He removed the arm that had been wrapped around her shoulders, so he could get a better read on her expression. "Don't tell me you're getting jealous of that new girlfriend o' his? I thought ya said it was never serious between the two of you."

She studied him closely for a moment and then burst into uncontrollable laughter. He could even see a few tears leak out onto her cheeks. "Wanna let me in on the joke here, love? 'Cause I can't say I'm seeing the funny."

"Oh, God, Doyle, I'm gonna pull a muscle if you keep saying crazy stuff like that." She held her sides as she worked to regain some of her composure, but clearly found it difficult. "Me jealous? Of someone who'd willingly have sex with Wesley? _Please_. I wouldn't sleep with him if he was the last man on Earth."

"Well, then why are y'thinking of him when you're sitting her with me?" Doyle asked, still wearing an expression of mild puzzlement.

Cordelia wiped a stray tear from her cheek and tilted her head to the side thoughtfully, having finally gotten herself mostly under control. "Okay, maybe I am jealous… of _him_. Virginia Bryce is filthy rich and has tons of connections; she took him to some big, fancy party tonight, chock full of A-listers. The kind of event _I'd_ be a hit at. Knowing Wesley, he'll probably spill cocktail sauce on someone."

"Ah, so it's Ms. Bryce you're thinking of—well, that's okay, I guess." Doyle commented with a teasing smirk, earning himself a little swat from Cordelia. "Yeah, so maybe Wesley's dating a little above his weight class. But, I mean, who am I to judge—some would say you're outta my league, y'know."

"And by 'some,' you mean everyone, right?" She goaded, her eyes twinkling with humor.

"Hope ya don't come to your senses one of these days." Doyle joked in return.

Cordelia shook her head at his silliness, and picked up the empty cup that was sitting beside her on the blanket they had spread out beneath them. "More cider, please?" Doyle gladly pulled the thermos out of the picnic basket beside him and unscrewed the top, pouring some of the warm, sweet-smelling liquid into the little paper cup in Cordelia's outstretched hand. "Look at us. A whole night to ourselves, and I didn't even have to resort to underhanded measures to get it." Cordelia remarked with faux-enthusiasm. "Good thing our business is back to its usual floundering."

"Angel's working tonight." Doyle reminded her, screwing the top of the thermos back into place and tossing it back into the basket. "Sorta."

"Thank God for that!" Cordelia retorted. "If he wasn't out helping Gunn's cousin, you'd probably be holed up drinking whiskey with him instead of up here drinking cider with me. I've been meaning to ask—is that gonna be an every night thing from now on? Really makes me long for the days when he sat in the dark brooding on his own."

"Ah… the drinking just goes along with the talking, darlin'. It's in my job description." Doyle gave her a flirtatious wink. Hoping to curtail any further discussion about his drinking habits, he turned up the charm—and the dimple. "The Darla thing's been rough on the guy. But look at the bright side, it's giving you a chance to put a real dent in that reading list of yours."

"And an even bigger dent in your liver." She snorted. "I really hope Angel saves Darla's soul before Christmas. Then we can send her on a journey to a land far, far away. Like Florida. And things can finally get back to normal around here—not that I remember what normal is exactly. I'm thinking it involves vacation. Didn't we talk about taking a cruise together at some point?"

"Mmmm." Doyle hummed his response, having chosen that moment to sip from his own cup of cider. If only she knew how far they had to go before they'd have time for that cruise.

"Hopefully, I'll be rid of this depressing hair before then." She complained, lifting her hand to the back of her head to feel her much shorter, darker locks. Her mouth had turned down in an automatic pout as she was reminded of her latest trip to the salon.

"I'm never depressed when I look at ya, Princess." Doyle assured her, emptying his cup and placing it down. "Quite the opposite."

"Well, it's depressing me." She moaned; her pout didn't lift and the rest of her face dropped to match it. "Admit it, Doyle. It's terrible and you hate it."

Doyle's brows came together in confusion, wondering how his complimentary words could be interpreted as hatred of her new hairstyle. "Is this one of those female things I have no hope of understanding?" He asked. "I told ya this morning—I think ya look great."

"You always say that." She said with a heavy sigh. "I need an unbiased opinion from someone whose sex life won't be effected by their answer." She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I guess it doesn't matter—not like I can afford to go back to the salon so soon."

"I'll buy ya a hat for Christmas." Doyle offered, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

"Very funny." She moped. Then she sat up a little straighter as she ruminated over his words. "Do you realize our first major holiday as a couple is on Thursday and we still don't have any plans?"

"We've been together for lots of holidays." Doyle reasoned. "Halloween was just a couple o' weeks ago, and before that we had Labor Day. Pretty sure Arbor Day was somewhere in there, too."

" _Major_ holiday, Doyle. As in, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, my birthday and Valentine's Day… all of which you have managed to avoid thus far."

"I wouldn't call it avoidance so much as observing the Gregorian calendar." Doyle said smartly.

"Tomato. _Tomato_." She sassed back at him. "This is a big deal. A relationship landmark."

Doyle gave an easy chuckle. "For the record, Thanksgiving isn't such a big deal to me, on account of it being an _American_ holiday."

"And you're in America." Cordelia pointed out. "Don't try and get out of this, buster."

"I'm not trying to get outta anything, darlin'." Doyle assured her. "I guess I just assumed you'd be going to Sunnydale to see your mom, that's all. It's been a while since you've been up to see 'er, yeah? I'm sure it'll be rough for her with your dad… away."

"He's not away, Doyle. He's in jail." She snorted with little humor. "And my mother caring about a holiday that revolves around fat and carbs? That'll be the day. Have I mentioned how small her apartment is? She used to have a closet that size."

Cordelia rarely ever spoke to her folks, or about them for that matter. It was almost as if they were distant relatives she was no longer obligated to see now that they no longer supported her financially. He could understand why she wouldn't be eager to visit her father in prison, but it seemed Cordelia had even less desire to see her mother.

"It's not really about the food, yeah?" Doyle said sympathetically. "It's about the togetherness and whatnot."

After a moment of silent contemplation, she looked curiously in Doyle's direction. "Wait. Are you saying you wanna meet my mom?"

That hadn't exactly been what he was saying. Considering how unenthusiastic Cordelia looked at the prospect of seeing her mother, he couldn't say he was all that eager to do the same. He cleared his throat uncertainly. "Me? With you… in, ah, Sunnydale…?" He swallowed hard, trying to think of a delicate way to walk himself out of this particular bear trap. "Ya really think she'd approve of a guy like me?"

"Sunnydale is out. Next idea." Cordelia said flatly, answering his question without having to answer it.

Doyle would have been offended if he hadn't been so relieved—even if he was ready to meet the parents, he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to meet the Chases. He began clearing their empty cups off the blanket, tossing them into the picnic basket with all the rest of their trash. That's when inspiration hit him. "I got it!" He enthused, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "We can go down to the food bank and volunteer. I haven't done that in years."

Cordelia's eyes widened in mild horror as she studied him closely, trying to ascertain as to whether or not he was serious. "Ugh, Doyle, unless you have a vision of some demon chowing down on homeless people, can we _not_ help the hopeless for one day out of the year?"

"But it's Thanksgiving, love." He clarified.

"Exactly. A day for us to _give_ thanks for what we have, not give others a reason to _thank_ us." She rationalized.

Naturally, he disagreed with that sentiment, but did agree with the idea that they worked just about every day, and definitely deserved a day of rest. "So, how would ya prefer to do this thanking bit then?"

She smiled wide and clapped her hands together. "We should have a big turkey dinner at my place!" She enthused. "We'll invite the guys. I know Angel doesn't eat, but we could get him some Turkey blood for the occasion. It'd probably be a good distraction for him. Don't you think?!"

Doyle cringed at the mention of the Turkey blood, and then cringed again as he imagined choking down a turkey dinner prepared by his girlfriend. Cordelia was great at many things, but none of those things involved cooking. "Ah… are ya planning on doing all the cooking yourself, darlin'?"

Her all-too-innocent smile gave him a different answer entirely. "You do want to be able to _eat_ the food, right?" She replied cutely.

"Uh huh." He responded, narrowing his eyes at her. "Alright, I'll do the turkey and all the fixings, but you're gonna have to buy the pie."

"House of Pies, here I come." She vowed, raising her hand in a pledge position. Her radiant smile was plastered from ear to ear, which made it impossible for him not to smile back at her.

It'd been a long time since he cared about the holidays. And now he was sitting on the roof of the Hyperion, planning the holiday season with his extremely giddy girlfriend. It didn't get much better than this.

* * *

"Chow Yun Fat?!" Cordelia squawked. "You actually met him?"

Doyle stepped a few feet away to avoid any further hearing damage as Cordelia's voice echoed through the Hyperion lobby at a great decibel. Her jaw hung open in disbelief as Wesley had recounted his evening at the hoity-toity soiree he'd attended on the arm of Virginia Bryce.

"Why yes. Do you know him?" Wesley responded, not quite understanding what all the fuss was about.

"That party was wasted on you." She responded, her face scrunching up in disapproval. "You think next time Virginia can round up a couple of extra tickets for me and Doyle? Or, at least, one extra so I could have an excuse to dress up and be fabulously shallow for one night."

"One night?" Wesley wondered, earning himself a death glare of epic proportions.

"Hey, I thought ya liked our romantic evening alone." Doyle objected.

"I did." Cordelia insisted matter-of-factly. "But I would have enjoyed it a lot more if Chow Yun Fat had been there."

"Hate to break up the party but—no, I don't." Gunn remarked from his place beside Angel. He turned to the vampire, gesturing for him to take the reins. "You wanna get your crew up to speed here, man. We got work to do."

"Right." Angel answered without much enthusiasm. "A group of thieves is planning to steal something from a local museum. Probably something with mystical power, which means something we really don't want them to have."

"My cuz didn't know any more than that." Gunn interjected. "He's just the driver. So, it's gonna take some of that research ya'll are so fond of to figure out the what, where and why—all we got is the who and when."

"Well, this is wonderful." Wesley replied with a huge grin directed toward Angel. "You're working a case. You're back!"

"Unless a certain blonde former-vampire who shall remain nameless is part of the crew." Cordelia snarked. "She's not, right?"

Doyle gave her a warning look before crossing the room to give Angel an encouraging pat on the arm. "Sure you're up to this, man? 'Cause, y'know, I don't mind stepping in. I know a thing or two about pulling off a big heist."

"You do?" Wesley asked with surprise. "I had no idea."

"Ignore him. He's just seen _Ocean's Eleven_ a few two many times." Cordelia piped up from her place across the room, giving Doyle a shrewd look.

"Hey, that's a good movie." Doyle asserted, with a guilty smirk. The lady knew him well. "Y'know, I heard they're remaking it. Sacrilege, man. Ya can't replace Sinatra."

"Uh…thanks, but I can handle it." Angel assured Doyle with a nod of his head.

"This is so great!" Cordelia enthused. "Look at you, boss, jumping right back into the swing of things with a big museum caper. Nothing like a little hard work to clear away the creepy obsession, am I right?"

"We should start by researching new acquisitions in local museums. I should think we'll be able to find that on the web relatively easily." Wesley spoke up, keeping the pep in his voice. "Natural History would seem the best place to start, wouldn't you say?"

"Makes sense." Cordelia agreed. "That'd certainly be the most boring place to start."

"Okay, do that." Angel said. "I'll head to the bus station. They're bringing a vampire in from Vegas tonight. His name is Jay-don. He's got a rep. If he's involved it's big."

"And you're planning on taking his place, yeah?" Doyle asked with surprise. "No offense, man, but you're not gonna fool anyone into thinking you're _that_ guy."

"You've heard of him?" Angel surmised.

"Met him, more like." Doyle clarified. "Lost some money to the guy, if we're being technical."

Cordelia shook her head knowingly. "Doyle in Las Vegas. Now there's a frightening mental image if ever there was one."

"Good. Then you can tell me what he's like." Angel noted.

Doyle furrowed his eyebrows as he looked Angel up and down, strongly doubting that his laconic, brooding best friend would be able to transform himself into the rather flashy and gregarious vampire Doyle recalled from years past. "Ah, well, for starters, you'll have to change your shirt. Ya have anything… brighter?"

"How bright?" Angel wondered.

"There a brighter shade of black?" Gunn jibed.

"Oooh, this just gets better and better!" Cordelia started bouncing up and down with unadulterated excitement, as she envisioned Angel's undercover persona. She stepped out from behind the reception counter and bounded closer to where Angel and Doyle were standing. "Too bad you can't squeeze into one of Doyle's hideous shirts. They come in all manner of glaringly awful colors." She studied Angel closely and then looked over at the much smaller man standing beside him. Nope, that would never happen. "I guess you'll just have to stop at the thrift shop on your way."

"What else?" Angel asked with a heavy sigh, clearly regretting this part of the plan.

"Jay-Don's a flashy sort." Doyle continued with an apologetic grin. "Real talkative fella. Goes on and on about his Rat Pack days."

"So, it really is _Ocean's Eleven_." Cordelia noted.

"Sounds annoying." Angel said, which Doyle thought was rather understating things. Jay-Don was one of those vamps just begging for a stake.

"Hey, man, I offered to take your place." Doyle reminded him. "Unfortunately, no one's gonna be fooled into thinking I'm Jay-Don. I might have the winning personality, but I'm lacking in the fangs department."

"Don't worry, Angel, I can give you some acting tips." Cordelia offered. "Do you think you're a classical actor or more of a method guy?"

"I, uh… I'll manage on my own. Thanks, Cordelia." Angel responded, stepping away from her and gesturing toward Gunn. "We'd better get moving." To the others he called over his shoulder. "Call me if you find anything."

Once Angel and Gunn had moved back out the front door, Cordelia sighed and arched a brow in Doyle's direction. "This has failure written all over it. Sinatra, he is not. He's not even Joey Bishop."

Wesley spoke up from where he stood on the other side of the reception counter. "If the other members of the gang have never met this Jay-don fellow, there's no reason they should think Angel is an imposter." He straightened out his suit jacket and puffed up his chest in a jaunty manner. "It's just fantastic to see Angel getting back in the thick of it. It appears the dark days are at an end."

"There's your silver lining." Cordelia agreed, circling back around the counter to take up occupancy behind her desk. "We could seriously use some cash right about now—and by _we_ , I mean _me_. That way the dark days can _really_ be at an end."

"Oh, yes. I noticed that your hair looks quite…uh, different." Wesley stated, watching as she'd run her fingers through her recently darkened tresses. The only reply he got was figurative daggers coming out of her eyes.

Doyle turned his back on his coworkers, leaving them to their own bit of repartee. He tried to feel half as enthusiastic as they did about things getting back to "normal."

The only problem was, he knew it would only be temporary.


	18. The Shroud of Rahmon, Pt 2

**"The Shroud of Rahmon," Part II**

"This is really bad, you guys." Cordelia announced, pacing outside the back door of the museum that had very obviously been taped so it wouldn't lock behind the gang of thieves who, along with Angel and Gunn, were right this very moment in the midst of stealing an especially dangerous artifact. " _Supremely_ bad. I mean, as 'oopses' go, I'd say we hit the maharaja. Sure, we distracted Angel from slowly being driven crazy by Darla… with a scarf-thingie that will drive him crazy much, _much_ faster."

"Shroud." Wesley corrected. "Of the demon Rahmon."

"No need to get technical, bud." Doyle said into his palms, which were planted over his face in frustration. He dropped them to his sides as he looked over at the door, which would lead them to Angel, and certain-madness themselves. "It could be a pair of socks— the point is we can't get near the thing without losing our minds, which is gonna make it a bit of a challenge to warn Angel."

"With any luck, they haven't opened the box." Wesley said hopefully.

"Since when do we have any luck?" Cordelia shot back. "Angel's probably going cuckoo for cocoa puffs in there. And by cocoa puffs, I mean _blood_."

"Guess we just have to hope madness suits us, yeah?" Doyle reasoned.

Cordelia shook her head in disbelief. "Wow, what a terrible plan."

She was right. As plans went, this one was severely lacking. Doyle stared at her worriedly, wondering if there was even the slightest chance she'd be willing to guard the door, rather than setting foot inside the museum-turned-madhouse. Having learned from past experience, he figured that would be a losing battle that would do nothing aside from waste more time. So, he settled for the second best option, which would hopefully keep her out of the most direct danger. "Alright, I think we should split up. I'll head toward the other wing, while you two check out this end. And, whatever ya do, stay together."

His two accomplices nodded obediently as Doyle pushed through the back door and into the dimly lit museum hallways. It was always a strange feeling to be somewhere you shouldn't be after business hours—it gave the place a life of its own. As Cordelia and Wesley stumbled inside on Doyle's heels, a loud whooshing sound filled his ears for a brief moment, followed by a wave of dizziness. Both of which he ignored as he proceeded to walk deeper into the place.

"So, how do we know if we've gone crazy?" Cordelia wondered, turning to Wesley who stood beside her. As they made eye contact, they both began to giggle incessantly, which caused Doyle to turn back to the two of them with what was supposed to be annoyance—but he found himself cracking up instead. They just looked so ridiculous standing there, trying to be all serious…

"Anyone else feeling a bit…?" Wesley tried to control his laughter by coughing instead.

"Incredibly." Doyle replied, getting control over his own snickering. "Better to ignore it, and just… ah..."

"Yes, we should do that." Wesley reiterated, turning away from Doyle and Cordelia to wander down the hallway toward the wing on the far end of the building, despite his prior consent to sticking with Cordelia in the front wing.

Meanwhile, Cordelia had started to drift in the opposite direction, attracted to the soft glow from the nearby display cases. "It's really kinda pretty here." Her voice floated over her shoulder as she disappeared around the bend.

Doyle stood alone for a moment, shaking his head at their inability to follow simple instructions. But the longer he stood there, the harder it became to remember what he had intended to do when he first walked in. He was standing there for a reason—and it had to do with his job, of course. He had to find something. That's right. He had to find—

 _Her_.

He had caught her scent. Floating through the air, down the dimly lit hallway, he could smell the intoxicating fragrance of a woman. Not just any woman— _his_ woman. Doyle was still wearing his human face, but he felt the demon's power pushing its way through the barrier between his two selves, allowing him to sense everything and everyone around him. _Everyone_ being only a clumsy Englishman bumbling away from him down the hallway, and the beautiful and alluring Princess who was only a few steps beyond the entrance to one of the display floors.

It was really a no brainer. Which was convenient, since Doyle wasn't sensing much in the way of brain activity at the moment.

He crept through the shadows, closing his eyes and letting his nose be his guide. He could not only smell her perfume, but the soap she'd used to bathe her skin, the shampoo she'd used on her hair, the lotion she'd lathered on afterward, even the laundry detergent that clung to her clothing. And underneath all that, he could smell _her_. She was calling out to him. Silently inviting him to follow.

He stalked after her, heeding her call.

Through the breaks in the shadows, he saw her stagger up to a glass display case, smiling into it. "My teeth are SO big." She observed, and her voice carried through the air, same as her scent had before it. He watched as she turned away from her own reflection and was attracted to a mannequin standing alone in the center of the room. As if she was in a trance, she reached out and detached a heavy and ornate necklace from around the mannequin's neck. "You don't mind if I try this on, do you?" She whispered, and then let out a loud whooping laugh. "Of course not. You're made of plastic!" She enthused, as she clumsily attempted to secure the necklace around her own neck. "You are plastic, right?" She finally asked, dropping the necklace to the floor forgetfully as she stumbled away from the mannequin and headed deeper into the recesses of the museum's south wing.

Doyle slinked out of his hiding place and toward the location she'd just occupied, inhaling deeply the air that still shimmered with her presence. He wanted her. He wanted her so bad he could taste it. _Literally_. He felt the quills push up through his skin, and he didn't even attempt to fight them off. He was already using the demon, now he let it have even more power—more control. He could smell everything within a mile radius, and the only thing that even remotely interested him was the woman who already belonged to him. Yes, yes… he could smell that, too. She already wore his scent as part of her own. And somehow that was even more alluring than if she had been entirely new prey.

Prey? No… she wasn't prey. Doyle tried to grasp on to an important memory. Something he was supposed to be focusing on—something that wasn't her. Or was it? He couldn't be entirely sure what he should be focusing on… aside from the one thing that seemed to be consuming every one of his senses.

He bent down to retrieve the necklace she'd dropped, bringing it up to his nose and lips to smell and taste the physical contact her skin had made with the item. It belonged to her. It must. And he had to bring it to her. That's why he was here… he was sure of it. Doyle lifted his spikey head into the air, instantly catching the thread of her wafting through the air. He stood and followed it, her abandoned necklace firmly clutched in his hand.

It didn't take him long to find her. It was no time at all, in fact. She stood bathed in the glow of a display case full of lightly robed figures, all wearing intricate jewels around their necks and wrists. It was the mannequin's hand that Cordelia was reaching for, attempting to pluck a sizable ring from its finger, despite the fact that a thick glass enclosure prevented her from accomplishing her goal. She paused as she caught sight of Doyle's reflection. Reaching out her fingers toward the demonic visage she saw in the glass, she looked more intrigued than frightened. "What are you doing here?" She asked, tracing her fingers along the clear surface, leaving smudges behind. "You're not supposed to be here."

Doyle stalked the rest of the way across the room, coming right up behind her and catching her around the middle. She inhaled rapidly, as his hands slid into place around her waist and then slid upward.

"Ya dropped this." He whispered as he ran his fingertips over her collarbone, slipping the necklace around her delicate throat and securing it nimbly in place. He used their closeness as an opportunity to sniff her neck and her hair. The scent had been intoxicating from afar, but up close, and in his demon form, it was enough to drive any demon absolutely _wild_. "Ya smell so good… I need to taste you."

He could see her face in the illuminated glass—she had lit up as she admired the intricate necklace, running her fingers over where it rested on her chest. As his words slowly registered, she smiled and then she began to giggle uncontrollably. "That sounded funny. Y'know, you remind me of someone." She said through her waves of soft laughter, allowing him to continuously run his hands over her with little objection. "But he's less spikey."

"No, he's not." Doyle assured her, finally giving into his urge and nibbling at the skin on the side of her neck. He heard her give a startled moan as she felt the pressure of his quills against her sensitive flesh. "He's _me_."

"Doyle." She spoke his name then, the laughter starting to drain out of her as she leaned back into his arms and tilted her head so he'd have clear access to her neck to continue his love bites, spikes and all. "Doyle, Doyle… I think we're forgetting something." Her words were breathless and almost trancelike in nature.

He knew she was right. He was definitely forgetting something. Probably a lot of somethings. But, he didn't really care anymore—the demon wouldn't let him care. Especially now that he'd caught up with the object of his desire. Now she would be his. No, wait, she was already his. Why was this so confusing?

Doyle spun her around so she was facing him, and he liked what he saw. The hunger written across her face. "Have ya ever wanted a demon in your bed, darlin'?"

"My bed...?" She asked mechanically, as his hands slid lower and lower to find the main source of heat emanating from her.

"Or anywhere." He clarified, the throaty quality of his voice was little more than a rumble. " _Here_ , for instance."

Her eyes had closed as she leaned back against the case behind her, entranced by his somewhat less-than-gentle ministrations. She licked her lips sensuously as she answered. "All the time…." She gasped, a wave of confusion passing over as she once again reopened her eyes. "But not like _this_."

She lifted one of her hands to Doyle's spikey cheek, letting the sharp edges graze against her open palm the way they'd grazed against her neck moments earlier. "You don't like it like this." She reminded him, with just the hint of a question behind her statement. Her breath catching in her throat as he found what he'd been seeking.

"Ah, but I do." Doyle growled, pressing his body up against hers, encouraging her to open herself up to him, which she did without resistance. He lifted her up easily with his added demon strength; and kept his balance with the demon's agility. She wrapped her legs around his waist as her arms looped around his shoulders.

"Tell me what you want." He demanded, even though he could already tell how badly she wanted him, and he could feel it deep within in his bones—the knowledge that he wouldn't stop even if she didn't want him. The demon didn't want him to stop. And somewhere, deep inside, Doyle could feel the man screaming out in horror—demanding that the demon stop.

It was her soft whimpers that made the man shut up. "I want you." She answered, threading her fingers through his hair roughly. " _Doyle_."

And then he was kissing her feverishly. Aggressively. Pinning her against the wall, the demon had complete control—not that he needed it. She came willingly into his arms, welcoming his tongue into her mouth, allowing his spikes to prick her skin without so much as a flinch. She was moaning, but every sound emanating from her was that of approval, urging him to continue. He could have been more gentle, taking the time to undress her properly, but he was a demon, and demons weren't exactly known for their etiquette. Instead, a loud rip accompanied the removal of her blouse, followed by the heavy clatter of her shoes being tossed aside with much more force than necessary.

Doyle waited until she was crying out in ecstasy before he lifted her away from the front of the display case, and effortlessly kicked open the small door that allowed entrance to the inside of the brightly lit cube. Its actual purpose was probably for museum personnel who needed to dust the inside of the display case. But, right now, it was used for a demon and his mate to seek entry. They crashed through the small doorway like a freight train, landing in a heap on the soft, furry material that lined the floor of the diorama. Good thing, since she landed on the bottom and he was being far from gentle.

They rolled over one way, and then the other. All time and space had evaporated, leaving only flesh. Human flesh against demon flesh. And motion. And the smell, touch, taste, feel of the woman the demon had been so desperate to conquer. She was his completely. And, although the demon didn't really understand how it had happened—he sensed that he had been made hers as well. Repeatedly.

No, wait… that wasn't the demon. That was the man. The man who called himself Doyle, who was slowly starting to wake up inside the body of the demon. Slowly starting to take in his surroundings—realizing he was wrapped around yards of soft skin belonging to... Cordelia. They were lying in the torn remains of a museum display case. A shredded carpet lay below them, and some silky material had been wound around their otherwise naked bodies—how it had gotten there, Doyle couldn't be sure. How they'd eventually untangle themselves from it was also going to be a challenge.

A soft moan from underneath him, led to panic rising in his chest. He brushed away a length of opaque fabric and the thick waves of dark hair, to find the source of the sound. "Cordy?" He asked worriedly. "Are ya okay?"

He saw the wide, satisfied smile stitched across her face, even before she answered with a resounding. "Mmmhhhhm."

It was then that he saw the green-tinged skin of his fingers and remembered exactly what had just transpired. He retracted his hand from her face and observed it as if it was a foreign object. "Oh God." He groaned to himself, letting the horror sink in.

"Oh God, is _right_." Cordelia murmured from below him. Her eyes slowly fluttered open, but still had a hazy dream-like quality to them. "That was…" She let out a satisfied sigh and shuddered rather than using an actual descriptive word, perhaps, finding all of them severely lacking at the moment. "Is demon-sex always like that? Please don't tell me that was just because of the maddening shroud?"

Doyle had made an instinctive attempt at phasing into his human form, but found his skin tone unchanged, and his spikes still firmly attached to his face. He started to breathe more rapidly, as the memories became clearer in his mind… The shroud? Yes, the shroud. _Please tell him it was all because of the shroud._ The memories of what he'd done to her—of what he would have done to her, even if she hadn't been so willing. He was disgusted with himself. He needed to get away. Although, at the moment, he was quite naked and quite demonic, which made a fast getaway rather impossible.

He felt her hand gently touch his shoulder and he twisted his head toward her in surprise. She was sitting up, half covering herself with the silky material that was coiled all around them. Now he saw where it had come from—the mannequins. They had been knocked over and lay several feet away, in pieces. Their garments now serving as Doyle and Cordelia's bedclothes.

"Doyle?" Her voice reached out and grabbed him, her eyes quickly filling with concern, replacing the smile that had been there only moments earlier. "What's wrong? Are you freaking out because we both went a little crazy and had kinky demon-sex? It's nothing to freak out about, okay? I know it wasn't exactly us, but it was still _us_. Only a little more… experimental. Think of it as the ultimate role-play. One we might even consider trying again—"

"No, no, no, Cordy!" Doyle stammered. "Don't tell me ya liked that? This is bad." He dropped his head into his hands, which was a challenge considering his face full of spikes, which were still steadfastly stuck in place.

"Um, I beg to differ. It was _good_." Cordelia corrected. "Very, _very_ good. Are you trying to tell me you didn't like it? Because you could've fooled me a few minutes ago, tiger."

Doyle didn't answer, keeping his head bowed low, wondering where he should start with all the ways he didn't like what had just happened. Not because it wasn't satisfying—of course, he'd be lying if he said it didn't feel good in the most animalistic way. It was the loss of control that he had hated. More so, the loss of humanity. Most of all, he hated what could've been…

It didn't help that he couldn't get rid of the demon. It helped even less that this wasn't the first time he'd been trapped in this other face. Granted, the last time had been brief, easy to shrug off as injury-related. Right now he wasn't injured and the seconds had ticked away into minutes. The face he never wanted to wear unless he absolutely _had_ to was firmly fastened in place. Heck, before he had been wearing this face, the demon had been there. It had beckoned to him—tantalized him with the enhanced senses—encouraged him to go all the way to the other side. Which he had, all too easily.

And now he was stuck.

"Did I hurt ya?" He asked in a low voice, keeping his eyes averted into his lap. "Be honest."

"What part of 'Oh God, Oh God, yes' sounded like I was in pain?" Cordelia sassed back. "Let it go, Doyle. There are way worse things that could've happened. We should be thankful that insanity made us horny instead of homicidal—oh, speaking of homicidal, we should probably find Angel… after we find our clothes, of course."

"Yeah." Doyle agreed, rubbing at the spikes still visible on his face. "I just, ah… need another minute."

"Oh, good, so do I." Cordelia admitted, plopping back down on her back and blowing out a long stream of air. "I don't think I can walk yet."


	19. The Shroud of Rahmon, Pt 3

**"The Shroud of Rahmon," Part III**

Doyle stared at the mirror in front of him, taking in the image of his pale human face. He had locked himself in the bathroom almost as soon as they'd returned to the Hyperion, only pausing long enough to see Angel flee to his own room above. It had been a bad night for both of them. A bad night in which the dark things inside them were dredged to the surface and encouraged to come out and play. Doyle had gone to that museum to save Angel, and ended up losing himself instead.

The sharp quills stayed buried deep within Doyle's skin as he momentarily considered phasing—testing his ability. But he stopped himself; afraid of what he'd discover. Afraid he'd get stuck again. Like before. He would have liked to blame it all on the Shroud of Rahmon, on the adrenaline, on the pheromones. Unfortunately, he knew it was none of those things. He knew his problem had started well before tonight. It's just that tonight it was so much worse. Tonight it was completely out of his control. Tonight, _Oh God_ …

As he stared at the face he preferred to cling to—the human face—he worried there'd be a day when he wouldn't see it in his reflection anymore. A day when he couldn't find the humanity that went along with it. A day when he'd be more demon than man. It had been his deepest, darkest fear since he first discovered what he was. And after tonight, he had to face the truth that he'd been ignoring for months.

It was really happening. He was changing. He was losing control.

When he'd first discovered his demon half, the division between the man he was and the demon he became was clear. The man was average at best; less-than at worst. The demon was stronger, and faster, and more agile. The man was observant, and could get lucky from time to time, so he had a decent sense of intuition. The demon didn't need intuition—the demon could sense things around him that a man could not. And over the course of the last several months, the division between his two selves had started to blur. Now even when he was the man, Doyle still felt the demon.

He had started noticing it ages ago, shrugging it off for one reason or another, but there was no shrugging it off this time. Even with the quills gone, Doyle was using his demon enhancements. Knowing and feeling things around him that he shouldn't know and feel. He could sense the drop of water hovering inside the faucet, waiting to drip out. He could smell the chlorine it contained. And at the exact moment it dropped, he could reach out and catch it before it ever made it down the drain, so sharp were his reflexes. These were not things a human should be able to do, and yet Doyle stood there in his human face doing the impossible.

He was _using_ the demon. Somehow. Even while he fought to keep it hidden, it was there ready to do his bidding. Insisting on doing his bidding, whether he wanted it to or not.

He slammed his hand down on the side of the sink and dropped his head, trying not to sob audibly. The sad thing was, he knew Cordelia wasn't lingering by the door—he knew exactly how far away she was. How far away Wesley was. They were both somewhere in the center of the lobby, safely out of hearing distance. The fact that he _shouldn't_ know that, only added insult to his injury.

Doyle turned the water on, splashing the cold water on his face, trying to shock himself back to his human senses. The night had messed with his head in more ways than one. As if it wasn't bad enough that he had to face his demonic identity problems, he also got a fairly vivid preview of what being a demon actually felt like. He had put Cordelia in danger. He—Doyle—was the danger. The fact that she had no idea of the danger she'd been in didn't lessen the weight bearing down on his shoulders. He may not have hurt her; she may have thought the experience enjoyable even. But, inside he knew the truth. He would have hurt her. He wasn't having fun. The thought of it made his stomach churn once again.

Another splash of cold water—and he patted his face dry with a paper towel, trying to remind himself that the _really_ bad stuff wasn't him. That was the shroud. It had to be the shroud. Brachens were demons, but they weren't known for the kind of behaviors he'd displayed tonight. They weren't evil by nature. No more evil than most men, in any case. And Doyle wasn't an evil man or an evil demon. At least, that's what he needed to tell himself to cleanse away the lingering memory of the demon he'd been a few hours before.

One last look in the mirror and nothing had changed since he'd first walked in. Nothing had changed and everything had changed. He needed to find out what was going on—he needed to know if his worst fear really was coming true. He needed to know if he could stop it before it was too late.

He pushed his way out of the bathroom and back into the lobby, finding Wesley and Cordelia camped out at the bottom of the main staircase wearing glum expressions. Doyle crossed the room toward them, picking up pieces of their conversation as he grew closer.

"It's not the shroud's effects on him that worry me as much as..." Wesley halted, deep worry lines visible across his brow.

"As what?" Cordelia asked with big innocent eyes, holding Doyle's leather jacket tightly around her body. "I told you, my shirt got caught on a hook and it just tore right off. Completely accidentally."

Wesley frowned slightly and made one of those nearly-silent noises of judgment he was so good at. "Angel drank human blood, from a living person. Something he hasn't done in a _very_ long time."

"Oh." She said with relief. "Right. The blood-sucking thing. Guess this puts a damper on him rekindling his friendship with Kate, huh?"

"To put it mildly." Wesley responded, turning toward Doyle as he approached them.

Cordelia eagerly popped up from her seat on the bottom of the stairs. "Can we go now? I think it's safe to say Angel doesn't want any company tonight, and I'm exhausted, as I'm _sure_ you can understand."

Her meaning wasn't lost on him, and as she moved closer, he spotted the bright red scratches on her neck that had been left behind by his spikes. He instinctively took a step backward, flinching at the sight of his handiwork. He didn't deserve to be near her tonight. Not after what he'd done. Perhaps he was being a tad irrational, but he had something else he needed to do anyway—namely, get to the bottom of his problem, so he could go back to worrying about Angel's problems, like he was supposed to be doing. "Ah… why don't you go ahead, love? I have some things I need to finish up here."

Cordelia's puzzled face made no secret of how lame she found that excuse. "If you plan on _finishing up_ a couple glasses of whiskey—you can do it from my apartment. I won't even roll my eyes or anything… okay, I'll only roll them a little."

"I appreciate the offer." Doyle assured her with a dry laugh. "You'll be glad to know it's not drinking I plan on doing. Just a bit of research. That's all."

"Research?" Cordelia questioned, turning her challenging gaze on the other occupant of the room. "What research needs to be done tonight?"

Wesley stood by awkwardly looking at the ceiling, wisely choosing silence over any fabricated answer he could have given. Lying to Cordelia was never a good idea; but neither was throwing Doyle under the bus.

"Truth is—I've still got a lot of adrenaline flowing." Doyle fibbed, hoping he was doing so convincingly. "Y'know how much that annoys ya, having me tossing and turning all night. I'm thinking an hour with Wesley's books will have me falling asleep in no time, yeah?"

"They've never failed you before." She agreed, her brow creasing slightly. Finally, she gave a resolved sigh, and motioned to take Doyle's jacket off, but paused when she remembered just why she was wearing it in the first place—because the tattered remains of her blouse weren't appropriate for mixed company. She left the jacket in place, and nodded her head toward the back office. "Okay then. Who needs sheep when we've got demons to count? I just hope whatever you wanna research tonight isn't _too_ gross."

Of course, she would offer to stay and help him. That was the type of person she was—a team player; and she was always on his team.

There were few things he hated more than lying to her, but he reminded himself that this wasn't exactly a lie. He was going to do research—the topic of said research being _himself_. "Listen, Princess. I know how tired ya must be—for good reason. No need for you to lose any beauty sleep on my account. I'd feel a whole lot better if I knew you and Clover were tucked in tight."

The edges of her lips turned downward in a slight pout. Then she reached out and grabbed his shirt sleeve, preventing him from moving away from her as she stepped close enough to drop her voice into a whisper. Not that Wesley was eavesdropping—the Englishman had long since shuffled away from them, collecting his belongings from the front reception counter and preparing to leave for the night.

"Doyle, you can't fool me. You're still feeling weird about what happened at the museum, am I right?" She asked in a muted tone, opening the folds of his leather jacket once again. "I told you, it's no big deal. So, I lost one more blouse to the good fight. I didn't really like this one anyway."

He almost wanted to laugh at that—her concern for her wardrobe outweighed any concern she'd had for her own wellbeing. And both those things could only be superseded by her concern for him. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his hands to her leather clad arms and pulled her against his chest, placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head. "I _am_ sorry about the blouse." Doyle said with a forced chuckle. "But if you're fine with what happened, then so am I."

She lifted her head to his, still wearing a pout. "I'd be more fine with it if you were coming home with me."

"I'll be there before y'know it." He assured her, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. "I love you, Cordy." He murmured as he pulled away, hoping that his honest words would make up for anything else she'd gleaned from him.

"I love you, too." She whispered back, a hesitant smile finally flickering to her lips. "Don't be too long—I sleep better when you're there."

With that, she grabbed her purse off the circular sofa, where she'd tossed it earlier and headed toward the front door where Wesley hovered, waiting to walk her to her car. He was ever the gentleman, that one. And Doyle was thankful for it at this time. He could rest assured that Cordelia would make it home safely, while Doyle proceeded directly to the back of the office, flicking on the coffee maker as he passed.

With any luck he'd make it to her bed before the sun came up. There were _a lot_ of books on demons that he would have to comb through. Not to mention all the ones that dealt with demon hybrids, and still more that mentioned Brachens specifically. He had no idea where to start. He was even less sure where it would lead. But he knew, without a doubt, he had to find out. No matter how long it took.

* * *

 **A/N- I'm going to speed up my posting schedule just a smidge for the next couple weeks, because I will be going on vacation after that and I want to make sure I end with a whole episode rather than somewhere in the middle of one. I apologize in advance that I'll be leaving you hanging while I'm off enjoying the summer sun, but I do promise I'll be back with uninterrupted posting thereafter. And I'm guessing you will be needing that based on where this story is going. *cues ominous music***


	20. The Trial, Pt 1

**"The Trial," Part I**

Cordelia opened her eyes slowly to avoid an onslaught of bright morning light. The draft at her back told her all she needed to know even before she rolled over to see the empty space beside her. Almost empty. Doyle wasn't there, of course, but Clover was loyally curled up on the far side of his pillow, leaving just enough room for the man himself, should he have ever found his way to bed the night before.

Sighing heavily, Cordelia leaned over and gave Clover's fuzzy little head a gentle nuzzle with her thumb. A pair of wide blinking green eyes greeted her, followed by a purring feline who began stretching her body in full. The small kitten had grown in the last few months, although she was still petite—most likely the runt of her litter. Cordelia scooped her up off the bed, and carried her to the kitchen, placing her on the floor beside a full bowl of food. Clover, like Cordelia, was rather fond of breakfast, and despite her small size, she had a voracious appetite.

Lifting the cordless phone off the receiver, Cordelia dialed the number she'd been dialing every morning that week and waited for the familiar answer on the other end. _Beeeep_. "Surprise, surprise. Another morning in which I have no idea where you are." She berated the electrical waves connecting her to Doyle's voicemail. "Hope you aren't enabling Angel's Darla-addiction yet again—except we both know, that's exactly what you're doing. Call me."

She slammed the receiver down with a little more force than she'd intended, and folded her arms around herself in frustration. This had been going on for nearly two weeks—if Doyle wasn't out tirelessly searching for Darla, then he was making excuses, such as the mysterious "research" he claimed to be doing. At this point, Cordelia was pretty certain that "research" was just code for more Darla stuff. Or drinking—that could be it, too. She wouldn't put it past him, although he'd never really bothered to hide his drinking from her, which led her to believe her first guess was probably right.

Darla, Darla, and more Darla. It was a boring song, being played on repeat.

Trudging to the refrigerator, she opened the door with little enthusiasm and her frown deepened as she saw the abundance of Thanksgiving leftovers still occupying her fridge. _This would be gone by now if Doyle was around to eat it_ , she thought to herself as she dug through the Tupperware in order to get to the carton of milk.

Thanksgiving itself hadn't been entirely what she'd hoped it would be—sure, it was the one day in recent memory where Doyle _had_ been by her side all day long. But he'd seemed so distracted; she had been seriously concerned he'd burn the entire place down without her constant haranguing. Certainly, there was no time for deep, meaningful conversation while she was reminding him to remove the giblets from the turkey and stir the mashed potatoes. Luckily, the food had turned out edible in the end and aside from the two demonic members of the Angel Investigations team, who clearly had their minds elsewhere, the rest of them enjoyed the holiday feast.

Cordelia really wished her boyfriend was a little less concerned with Angel's personal life, and a little more concerned with his own.

 _Sigh._

She knew he'd come crawling back eventually, all sad puppy dog eyes and tail between his legs. Making it impossible for her to stay angry with him for long. Which didn't mean she wouldn't start out with a few mild tongue-lashings, because he definitely deserved them. But, she was looking forward to getting past the obligatory scolding, and skipping ahead to the good stuff—the intimacy, for one, which had been sorely lacking as of late. And not just the fleshy part, although, that was lacking, too—they hadn't had sex since their wild night at the museum, which was odd for them, considering they usually couldn't keep their hands off each other. More than that, she missed simply _talking_ to him. She missed knowing what was going on inside his head, because right now, she hadn't the slightest clue.

She had a guess, though. It started with a D.

Cordelia sighed again as she prepared a bowl of whole grain cereal, and watched as Clover chowed down from her own bowl on the floor. A smile flickered to her lips as she remembered the day he'd plopped that little ball of fur in her arms, a broad grin across his face. He was so proud to have saved her; so eager to make her a part of their little family. He could be really sweet sometimes.

Even when she was annoyed with Doyle—and she was most definitely annoyed with him at the moment—thinking of him could still make her smile.

Geez, when had she turned into such a sap?

* * *

"Turkey sandwich?"

Wesley eyed the rather large grocery bag Cordelia had just slung onto the reception counter and then turned his eyes toward the wall clock which indicated it was barely 10:00 a.m. "That's very thoughtful, but I, uh… haven't quite finished my breakfast."

"Coffee isn't breakfast." Cordelia observed, staring at the mug in Wesley's hand and seeing no further evidence of breakfast foods. She didn't wait for a response, grabbing a few items out of the bag and crossing to the small office refrigerator to stuff them inside. "Oh, and I'm not being thoughtful. I needed to get all these leftovers out of my fridge and I figured this was the quickest way to do it."

Wesley opened his mouth to reply and thought better of it, lifting his coffee mug to his lips instead and uttering a vaguely interested. "Mmmmm."

Cordelia continued unpacking the grocery bag in a flurry until the small refrigerator was overflowing with food and the door couldn't be closed properly. She kicked it a few times before groaning dramatically and yanking some of the items back out. Wesley watched all this with one slightly raised brow; it didn't take any special skillset to see that Cordelia was frustrated and had decided to take it out on the office furniture.

"Where is Doyle this morning?" Wesley asked cautiously, hoping the affable Irishman wouldd appear shortly to calm the whirling dervish that was his girlfriend. Apparently, that was the wrong question to ask, as evidenced by Cordelia finally slamming the refrigerator door so hard that it shook. She then lifted the pile of food that couldn't fit inside and threw it haphazardly on the countertop next to the coffeemaker.

"Probably in some cheap motel with Angel." She huffed, stomping away toward her desk.

"Ex-excuse me?" Wesley sputtered in reply, thinking he surely must have heard her wrong.

"Gunn's probably with them." She clarified, rolling her desk chair into place with much more noise than expressly necessary. "Looking for Darla in all the skankiest places in town, now that Wolfram & Hart isn't footing the bill."

"Oh, right. Yes." Wesley said with some degree of relief. There had been a lot of that lately. The three musketeers slithering about the seediest areas of town, on the hunt for the tiny blonde woman who seemed to be turning Angel inside out. All the while, Wesley and Cordelia were left home, like the nags they portended to be. It was rather irritating, come to think of it.

"He could be dead in a gutter somewhere and do you think he'd bother to call me and let me know?" Cordelia continued, mostly to herself. "I mean, I've only been sleeping with him for the better part of a year, why should he tell me where he is at this precise moment in time?!"

She noticed a blue post-it stuck to the front of her computer screen, she yanked it off with quiet fury, scanning it for a moment. She then crumpled it in a ball and tossed it in the bin beside her desk, grumbling to herself. "Cheap motel it is."

Wesley gulped down the tightness that had formed in the base of his throat. Well, he had surely stepped in it now. Not only did he have an irate Cordelia on his hands, but it didn't sound like there'd be a savior in sight any time soon. He searched the recesses of his brain for something else that might possibly improve her mood, or in the very least, distract her.

"On second thought, I do think I would rather enjoy a turkey sandwich." Wesley announced, more enthusiastically than he felt. Despite the resounding grunt he got in response, he made a big show of taking one of the foil-wrapped packages from beside the coffee maker and holding it up so she could see. "Quite tasty, I'll bet. Maybe with a dash of cranberry—"

"Wesley, whatever you do, can you do it more quietly?" She asked testily, returning to her computer monitor. "Some of us are trying to work here."

* * *

"Yo, you gonna answer that thing anytime this century?" Gunn asked with irritation from several steps ahead of Doyle. "I think we both know she won't stop calling 'til you do. Also, have you _met_ your girlfriend? Scary chick—not smart to be avoiding her calls."

Doyle clicked the ignore button for the umpteenth time that morning as he continued down the badly lit hallway, which stunk worse than most landfills. Angel walked silently beside him, his focus unwavering as they followed Gunn's lead to the room that may belong to Darla.

"I'll call her back when we're done here." Doyle mumbled, shoving the device back into his pocket and debating whether or not he should shut it off entirely. It's not that he was avoiding her, per se. Or, maybe he was avoiding her; he really couldn't tell anymore. All he knew was that they were close to a pretty big fork in the road and Doyle was having trouble staying focused. On Angel, most specifically. If this next part went wrong, then all of the emotional turmoil he'd put his friend through, really would have been for nothing. At least Angel didn't know what he stood to lose—not for real. He would get over Darla. Doyle, on the other hand, knew exactly what they stood to lose, and he didn't think he could live with himself if they did.

If only Doyle wasn't so damn distracted by everything around him. The smell of the mildew in the shoddy motel carpet. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. The bum sleeping on the stairwell with a bottle of Jack Daniel's tucked under his arm—Doyle really would've liked to borrow that bottle right about now.

No, Doyle. This is important to Angel. _Focus_.

Gunn slowed down when he got to the end of the hallway and deftly kicked open the shoddy door that allowed them entrance to room 219. An empty room, by all accounts.

"She ain't here, bro." Gunn announced unnecessarily, stepping back so Angel could see clearly from the doorway. Doyle remained in the doorway as well, not feeling the need to venture any further into the accommodations offered at the Royal Viking Motel that was anything but royal. On the other hand, it may have a rotting Viking corpse somewhere on the premises, judging by the heavy odor emanating from every crevice of the place.

Doyle felt himself go a little green, and not in the usual spikey way.

"She was here. Not long ago." Angel noted, stepping into the room to take a closer look, not that there was anything personal left behind, save one crucifix sitting on the dresser top. "Her scent's still fresh. A lot of fear."

Fear. Doyle could smell that, layered underneath everything else. All the blood, sweat, tears and other bodily secretions. Under the mold, mildew and dust. The fear was his own, however, rather than Darla's. Fear of what was happening to him; fear that he couldn't stop it; fear that he couldn't live with it. And on top of all that, fear that it was preventing him from doing his job properly. Because it _was_ distracting him. He was barely present for arguably the most crucial steps in Angel's path.

"Don't envy you that particular talent." Gunn was answering Angel, looking as disgusted by their surroundings as Doyle felt. "Not based on what I'm getting with just my standard issue human smeller. Man, not even for free cable, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Doyle knew _exactly_ what he was saying, and at that moment the sensory overload was becoming too much. He needed to get out of the thick stench of this room. Of this entire place… crawling with filth. "I, ah…" He swallowed hard, backpedaling out the doorway. Both Angel and Gunn gave him vaguely curious glances as he retreated. "On second though, I'd better call Cordy before she sends out the National Guard, yeah?"

And then he was racing away from the doorway, without knowing or caring what the other two thought he was doing. He rushed down the hallway to the stairwell that bore a faintly blinking exit sign, and hopped over the sleeping bum in his path. He took the stairs two at a time, and finally reached the bottom, crashing through the final exit into the overcast day outside. He gulped down the fresh air, trying to rein his out-of-control senses back in. Trying to feel human again. Nothing but human.

Doyle stood hunched over, hands wrapped around his kneecaps as he worked to catch his breath. Panicking would get him nowhere, but he was having trouble doing much else as of late. This had to be the worst cosmic timing in the history of bad cosmic timing—Doyle had been so careful, setting up this fragile house of cards. And now, with just a few key cards left, his hands were shaking. Both figuratively, and literally. He was coming undone.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to regain control over his body. There was nothing wrong with him, not in the way he was making it out to be. He was changing, yes, that was true. And he hadn't found anything in Wesley's books that could tell him why he was changing or, more importantly, how he could stop it. So what? He wasn't even supposed to have this future, maybe he should stop obsessing over the demon he was becoming and just be glad he was there at all.

Yeah, right. That'd be the day.

Doyle rubbed his hands over his face and let out a long deep breath, the panic attack slowly subsiding. Regardless of what was happening to him, he had to keep it together. It was his _job_ to keep it together. His entire reason for existing. And the most crucial elements of Angel's future were rapidly approaching. Doyle had to be ready for them. No matter what he was becoming.

His phone began to ring again from its place in his pocket. This time he didn't ignore it. He took it out and flipped it open without looking at the number flashing across the screen. He didn't have to.

"Cordy, hey. I'm sorry I didn't call—" He waited patiently with the phone slightly removed from his ear as she gave him an earful. He'd expected it, and honestly, deserved it. But, once she had finished venting, there was only one thing she was really interested in knowing. "Yeah, everything's fine. Just checking out a lead on Darla. We're getting real close…"


	21. The Trial, Pt 2

**"The Trial," Part II**

Doyle held open the front doors of the Hyperion, feeling Cordelia's eyes on him from inside. She wasn't overly enthused with him to begin with; she was really going to hate what walked through that open door next.

Angel with his arm around the shoulders of a petite, bedraggled blond… holding a suitcase.

"Oh, look. You found Darla. And you brought her _here_." Cordelia announced loudly, bringing Wesley scrambling from whatever he'd been doing in the back office. His jaw hung slightly ajar as he watched Angel chauffeur the fragile-looking woman to one of the red chaise lounges that occupied the lobby.

"You'll be staying with us, then?" Wesley inquired, when he finally found his voice. Both he and Cordelia moved in unison to the unwelcome guest now seated in their lobby. Doyle kept his head down and his mouth shut for the time being, hands firmly shoved into his pockets.

"I'm dying." Darla declared with little emotion.

"Oh. Bummer." Cordelia remarked, frowning down at the suitcase Darla had placed at her feet. "Then you won't really be needing a room, right? Not when there are other, better places to die. Like a hospital, for one. Or a morgue."

"She's not dying." Angel interrupted, waving off Cordelia's callous remarks.

"I am. I can feel it." Darla insisted. "You just don't want to believe it."

Angel squatted down in front of her, scowl firmly in place. "You're right—I don't want to believe it… because the diagnosis came from Wolfram & Hart. Nothing they say can be trusted. They sent you here to mess with me, and now they've told you that you're dying to mess with you. And I'm not going to let them get away with it."

"Dear boy…" Darla said with a half-smile. "If it wasn't so naïve of you to try and be my hero, it would almost be sweet."

"Doyle?" Cordelia's voice cut through the room, and was accompanied with a meaningful look. She was silently urging him to provide some insight; knowing full well he had some to offer. "What do you think?"

"Ah…" Doyle cleared his throat uncomfortably. It wasn't what he thought—it was what he knew. Darla was absolutely dying, and even if she wasn't, she and Angel needed to think it was true for now. "I think Angel needs to find out for himself."

Cordelia frowned slightly at his utterly unhelpful answer. Meanwhile, Wesley nodded along, actually being somewhat cooperative in this instance. "Yes, I think we know by now that Wolfram & Hart are not to be trusted under any circumstances. And their endgame seems rather transparent at this point."

"I'm not taking their bait." Angel gritted out in reply. He turned back toward Darla and a pleading quality entered into his voice, which was most un-Angel-like. "Please, stay here with Doyle and the others while I get the truth."

Darla laughed to herself as she leaned back on the red lounger and closed her eyes. "From one prison to the next, it makes no difference." She said in a singsong voice. "I can die here the same as I can die anywhere else."

"Um, okay, but we'd really prefer that you don't die _here_ here." Cordelia replied, eyeing the plush material that Darla was sprawled out across. Her eyes popped back up to that of her co-workers. "It's bad for business."

Angel turned to Doyle, gripping his friend by the shoulder and giving him intense eye contact. "Will you watch out for her while I'm gone?"

"O'course, man. She's safe with us." Doyle said agreeably, hands still hidden in his pockets, to hide the clamminess that gave away his frazzled nerves. He needed a stiff drink and a cigarette after the day he'd had, but he'd just have to settle for the dirty looks from his girlfriend as he babysat a syphilitic former-vampire, who would soon be a _former_ -former-vampire if things played out the way they were meant to.

At least the situation was intense enough to keep Doyle focused on _it_ rather than his demonic identity crisis. Well, mostly focused. Somewhat focused…

As soon as Angel had left the building, Cordelia turned to Wesley with an overly saccharine smile. "Wesley, maybe you can offer our formerly-evil-possibly-still-evil houseguest a turkey sandwich or something? Doyle and I really need to have a word in private." She didn't wait for an answer—she had already grabbed Doyle by the shirtsleeve and was yanking him toward the door to the rear courtyard, where they could have a moment alone.

Once there, she whirled on him, eyes blazing. "Before we get into the former-vampire-prostitute currently dying in our lobby, I think you have something to say to me."

"I'm sorry." Doyle responded reflexively, knowing that was undoubtedly what she wanted to hear—even if he had already said it on the phone earlier that day. Apologies never really counted unless they came in person. Come to think of it, maybe he _hadn't_ said it on the phone earlier. He'd been so preoccupied, he couldn't even remember exactly what he'd said to her on that call. Judging by her facial expression, whatever he'd said hadn't impressed her, nor was his current apology doing much better.

"For what?" She prodded him, lifting her shoulders to indicate he should continue speaking. "Why _exactly_ are you apologizing to me?"

"For… worrying ya." He said carefully, and then his tongue did that thing where it continued moving, even when his brain knew it shouldn't. "I did leave a note this time."

Her eyes widened in irritated disbelief. "You mean the passive aggressive sentence you scribbled on a post-it and left here instead of calling me like a normal person?"

"Ah, yeah." Doyle gulped audibly. "That'd be the one."

"A lot of good it did when I woke up in an empty bed this morning." Cordelia snipped at him. "And yesterday morning. And the one before that. I've lost count of how many nights you haven't come home, Doyle." The way her voice hitched on the word 'home' let him know she wasn't just annoyed by his multiple absences, she was hurt. Why couldn't she just be angry with him? He much preferred her ire to her wounds. "Not to mention how many times you haven't bothered to call. If I was a less secure individual, I might think you were avoiding me."

Doyle fought the urge to swallow, knowing it would only confirm her astute observation. Instead he fumbled for the least pitiful excuse he could think of—the one that was mostly true, if not entirely. "That's just… Y'know how much Angel's needed me lately." He insisted. "And, look. All the hard work's paid off, yeah? We got our girl."

Cordelia's face was a solid wall of granite as she continued to face him head on, but then she let the stone façade break and her shoulders dropped in resignation. He wasn't deluded enough to think the topic was closed, but it seemed the current inquisition was at an end. "So, what's her deal anyway? Obviously it's another of Wolfram & Hart's little tricks—she's not really dying."

"It's not a trick." He admitted, figuring there was no point in skirting around the truth at this point. Angel was already gone; he'd soon find this out for himself. "She is really dying."

"What?!" Cordelia squawked in reply. "Why did you let Angel go off to beat answers out of one of those evil jerks, if there were no answers to get? Wait, nevermind, I think I just answered my own question. It's because they're evil jerks. But don't you think you should've told him the truth?"

Doyle answered with shrug. "He needs to do it this way. Trust me."

"I do trust you, which is why I let you get us into this mess in the first place!" Cordelia shot back in frustration, pacing several steps away from him and putting a worried hand to her brow. "This doesn't seem like it should be part of the plan to save her. This seems like the _opposite_ of what should be happening. Are you sure you didn't get something wrong with this whole Darla thing?"

"O'course, I'm not sure!" Doyle blurted out before he could stop himself; he was teetering on the edge and keeping things from her had never been something he was very good at. "I'm just doing what I think is for the best here—hoping it all shakes out the right way."

What else was he supposed to say? He doubted himself every other second. He'd doubted himself the moment he'd been hit with the massive vision in the belly of the Quintessa. He doubted himself every moment since then. And now that things were really adding up, he was doubting himself all the more.

It didn't help that he was also doubting himself in other ways. That even standing here with her for less than a minute, he'd gotten sidetracked by no less than a dozen different things he could sense in the garden around them. A moth fluttering by one of the spotlights. The ivy slowly growing up the wall in micro millimeters. The smell of Cordelia's skin in the air—God, that one most of all. He could get lost in it, if he let himself.

He was snapped back to reality by the terrified look he saw in her wide hazel eyes. "I know you're doing the best you can." She said with a mixture of disappointment and compassion, her next words coming out kind but firm. "But it might not be enough. I think… maybe you did something wrong."

Those words cut deeper than she'd intended. Doubting himself was one thing, he'd been doing that for years about a great number of things. Not the least of which was his big cosmic purpose. But Cordelia's belief in him had more than made up for his own lack of faith in himself. Whether she knew it or not, she gave him the courage to keep doing what he was doing. Right now, however, he could plainly see that her faith in him was wavering. And the panic started to rise—he couldn't do this alone.

"I didn't do anything wrong." Doyle finally managed to choke out a few words in his own defense. "Not yet—but I really won't know 'til we get to the end o' all this."

"When _is_ the end?" Cordelia wondered. "Because, personally, I vote for it to be right now. Darla's dying. Boo-hoo. I don't think we should feel too broken up over the death of a four hundred year old murderer. There are other people who need our help—innocent people. Angel seems to have forgotten all about them, and I haven't seen you doing much reminding lately."

It was Doyle's turn to pace away from Cordelia as he continued his flimsy defense. "I've been doing what I was chosen to do, Cordy—passing along the messages I get from the Powers That Be." Doyle argued, turning back to face her. "That's never stopped, even with me trying so damn hard to get Angel his—"

He caught himself, stopping short before he said it out loud. Before he told her _exactly_ what he was trying to get for Angel. The look on her face wasn't one he thought he could fight. And the truth was, he didn't want to fight it. He was aching to tell her. Aching to have her on his side again. God, did he need her on his side—now more than ever before.

"Make sure Angel gets _what_?" Cordelia urged, her eyes drilling into him, searching for more than just the answer to that one question.

He had to tell her. There was too much at stake for him to keep bearing this burden alone, especially since he was battling his own demon every step of the way and it was taking its toll. Doyle needed to know there was someone else fighting for Angel's future. And he was certain that if Cordelia knew what Angel stood to lose, she'd fight with him every step of the way. She'd probably carry the burden alone if Doyle was no longer capable. Heck, she'd already done exactly that! In his glimpse of the alternate timeline, she had inherited his visions and his role as Angel's closest companion. She had taken Doyle's place.

She'd do it again, if she had to. That was the type of person she was. And that's why he needed to lean on her now more than ever before. Nearly a year to the day from when he'd first been handed this baton, it was fitting that he'd pass it back to her. Fitting that they'd carry it together.

"Angel's gonna ahhh—gaaaahhhhh!" Doyle cried out as an excruciating vision slammed through his brain with no warning whatsoever, sending him reeling backwards into a potted plant. It was brutal—the violent imagery he watched unfold inside his head. Blood. So much blood. And pain. And death.

As Doyle slowly started to come back to his senses, he found Cordelia kneeling over him worriedly. He slowly lifted a hand to the back of his head, feeling some wetness there. Thankfully, it was precipitation from the plant he'd landed on, rather than his own blood. He also was lying in a mound of dirt—good thing his wardrobe wasn't much to look at in the first place, because it wasn't getting any better as it became stained with filth.

"Are you okay?" She asked, brushing some dirt and leaves off his back as he sat up and tried to get his bearings.

He was most definitely _not_ okay. The vision he'd just seen—the blood, the death—it belonged to the woman crouching over him. He had seen Cordelia's death. Worse than that, he'd seen it at the hands of Darla and a dark-haired vampire companion he didn't recognize. As if that wasn't bad enough, he'd also seen full-blown carnage, bodies piled all around the corpse of his dead girlfriend. And Angel being handcuffed and taken away—charged with the crime. It was all very vivid; all very clear.

Just as Doyle's own anguish at losing her had been brutally clear. Visceral even. He'd never seen himself in a vision before—he couldn't say it was an experience he wanted again.

"Doyle, you're scaring me." Cordelia's voice again, snapping him back to attention. Her hands had found their way to his cheeks, where she gently wiped a few stray tears with her thumbs. "What did you see?"

He had seen his worst nightmare.

Reaching out to her, he felt her slender, but toned arms beneath his fingertips. She was real; she was safe. And, thankfully, blessedly, he knew exactly how to keep her that way.

All he had to do was _lie_.

"Ah… I saw…" He clenched her tightly for a moment, his eyes drinking her in, and then he released her. "I know how Angel can save Darla."

That was that. The Powers had made it clear. He couldn't tell her what was meant to happen with Darla, not without putting her in mortal danger—something he would never, ever knowingly do. In fact, the further away from all this she stayed, the safer she'd be. He couldn't be too cautious, not when it came to her life. The Host had warned him once, the Powers warned him now—he needed no further warning.

Cordelia's face fell slightly as she processed his words, but she didn't quarrel. Instead, she stood herself back up and offered her hands to Doyle to bring him back to his feet as well. "How?" She asked skeptically. "Does she need a kidney or something? I bet Angel would be happy to rip one out of a lawyer for her."

Back on his feet, Doyle was finding it hard to meet her eyes. Up until now, he may have played things close to the vest in terms of what the future would hold, but he'd never felt like he was blatantly lying. Sure, the Powers That Be had given him a very valid reason for the lie, but it didn't make him feel any better. On the upside, this had been the first indication that the Powers That Be were actually paying attention to what Doyle was doing—that his choices really meant something.

A surge of adrenaline shot through him as he realized what that meant.

He must be doing something right! Or, right enough to earn a favor from the people upstairs. That was no ordinary vision. They'd sent him a gift; kept him from doing something he'd regret. Which meant, he really couldn't afford to blow it now.

"We should get back in there." Doyle announced, ambling back toward the lobby entrance. "Angel can't save her if we let Wesley bore her to death."

"Wait." Cordelia called, halting him before he'd gotten far enough to escape. "You were about to tell me something. Before the vision."

"Ah, I… lost my train of thought." Doyle hedged, looking toward the door wistfully, but not moving any closer toward it. "Guess it wasn't important, yeah?"

She didn't believe him. He could see that right away. She bit down on her lower lip, probably biting back the urge to call him out on his obvious lie. "Uh huh." She finally said, not altogether convincingly. "Guess you should go do the _important_ thing—save Darla."

The tone of her voice gave him pause, and as desperate as he was to flee the courtyard, he had to say something else. Something that would remove that look of disappointment from her eyes.

"He's not gonna turn her, Cordy." Doyle promised, hoping he could win back her faith by assuaging her fears. "No matter how much she begs or manipulates. That's never gonna happen."

"Sounds like a fool's bet to me." Cordelia replied coolly, folding her arms over her chest. "Tiny blonde women have a way of unraveling Angel."

"Well, he's missing out on the leggy brunettes." Doyle wisecracked, hoping that his attempt at levity would be received well on her end.

A stone wall of silence was all he got in return, and he supposed that was for the best. He made his way back into the lobby to save Wesley from Darla, or Darla from Wesley. But the truth was, Doyle was merely trying to save himself.


	22. The Trial, Pt 3

**"The Trial," Part III**

Doyle lit another cigarette from the remains of his previous one and tossed the butt into the empty swimming pool below him. His legs dangled over the side, as he idly wondered if he'd tossed it into the same portal Angel had dived through, or if it was merely sitting in the gunk at the bottom of the pool. Probably the latter, but one could never tell when it came to inter-dimensional portals.

It had been a while since Doyle felt the need to chain-smoke, and if he were being really honest, it had been an even longer time since he had the opportunity and means to do so. If he had the chance to grab even one quick smoke, he usually regretted it. Not that Cordelia had ever asked him to quit, but she didn't make any secret of how much she disliked it. Therefore, he didn't really _need_ to be asked. Not to mention, it was a terrible habit to begin with—he'd been quitting off and on for years.

Now, however, he needed something to temper his nervous energy. Sending his best friend into a portal to the netherworld in order to face a life or death trial was hell on the nerves. Not to mention the fact that he had more time to kill than he knew what to do with—hitting the convenience store for a pack of smokes seemed reasonable. He'd been more than a little tempted to grab a 40 oz. as well, but he figured he needed his wits about him, if anything should happen that was… _unexpected_. Like, say, Angel dying along with Darla. Yeah, that'd be pretty damn unexpected, and it would take a whole lot more than a 40 oz. to deal with that level of a failure on Doyle's part.

So, no alcohol, then. Just the nicotine and tobacco, and the heels of his shoes nervously tapping against the side of the pool.

Doyle wasn't really that worried about Angel coming out alive. The Powers That Be had given Doyle a pretty good indicator that he was doing something right—and they seemed to care enough to _keep_ him doing that right thing. And if he _wasn't_ doing things right, then they had a seriously twisted sense of humor.

In any case, Doyle knew Angel would win. And he knew Angel would also lose. It was Angel's state of mind that Doyle was most concerned about. He was already dreading the look he'd see on his friend's face—the blame he'd see there. It was going to hurt as much as the look of disappointment he'd seen in Cordelia's eyes earlier that evening. That was the worst part of his job—hurting the people he loved the most, even if he knew it was for their own good.

This moment—and another key moment to follow—these were the ingredients that would lead to the miraculous future Doyle had seen with his mind's eye. Angel would go into that trial and he would earn a life—a life Darla wouldn't be able to use. Not strictly speaking, anyway. She would get that life in a different way, however.

That life would become a son. Angel's son.

 _Connor._ That would be the boy's name. Doyle had seen him so clearly amidst all the chaos of that other timeline. And he had seen the love Angel had for the boy. A love that was unparalleled. There could never be an equivalent to the love Angel would have for his own flesh and blood.

It wasn't only Angel's love that had inspired Doyle. Cordelia had loved Connor, too. He hadn't just seen that part, he'd felt it. She had loved the child as if he were her own. Wesley, Gunn, even the Host had loved him, and someone else that Doyle didn't even know yet. They all loved him and Doyle wasn't about to change that part of the future.

Doyle wanted—no, _needed_ —to keep that one thing the same as it had always been. He couldn't live with the knowledge that his life would erase another human being from the equation—particularly one that meant so much to the people Doyle loved.

All that had happened, all that was yet to happen… it was all worth it. So Connor would live.

 _Well, it's easy to say it's worth it so far_ , Doyle thought to himself, taking another long drag of his cigarette. Things had been a little rough lately, but the hardest part was still to come. Because, truthfully, Doyle had no idea how to push Angel into doing what needed to be done next. Namely, creating the life that was currently being earned.

Doyle knew what needed to happen, but when, why and how was anyone's guess. That was the problem with visions of the future—they didn't come with all the details. Encouraging Angel to save Darla was one thing, encouraging him to bed her was a little more complicated. Doyle couldn't exactly light a few candles, put on some Barry White, cross his fingers and hope for the best. Angel was pretty stalwart when it came to members of the opposite sex, and for good reason. The consequences of getting a little too happy, were fairly deadly.

So, what would make Angel throw caution to the wind? Other than Doyle coming right out and telling him to do it, which was out of the question, considering what happened last time Doyle tried to open his big mouth about the future.

Doyle's current working theory was that Angel would sleep with Darla out of grief—knowing he was about to lose her for good. It made just as much sense as any other theory Doyle could come up with. If that were the case, then tonight could be Doyle's lucky night in more ways than one. It could be the end.

Maybe they could stop for some candles and a Barry White CD on the way back to the Hyperion. Couldn't hurt.

Of course, if it didn't happen tonight, then it was back to square one for ol' Doyle—how do you get a celibate vampire to break the proverbial seal?

Inhaling deeply, Doyle held the cigarette smoke in his lungs for an extra beat before letting it out again in a thin stream. It tasted different somehow. The smoky taste on his tongue was far more nuanced—probably as a result of his ever-strengthening demon senses. He'd been blessedly engrossed in Angel's life and death predicament for the last 24 hours, so obsessing over his own problem was pushed to the backburner. At least he'd managed that much—prioritizing his duty over his personal crisis. Maybe there was hope for him yet.

In this particular instance, he was almost enjoying the myriad of scents and flavors he was able to discover within the burnt tobacco leaves that comprised his cigarette. He supposed that food had also been much tastier as of late—which, in turn, had made him much hungrier. And, although it was still unsettling, he was admittedly much more prone to arousal just by catching Cordelia's scent in the air. Something that had pushed him down a rather disturbing path when under the influence of the crazy-making shroud, but under every day circumstances, it was like any other desire—controllable. Fillable, should he ever be brave enough to try and fulfill it.

Other people would probably enjoy all those things. Doyle wasn't that person. He wasn't capable of looking past the usefulness or the pleasantness. He wasn't capable of compartmentalizing the benefits, without the paralyzing fear that came with them.

Maybe he could, if he had confirmation that it would never get any worse than it was now. If he knew for certain that he would remain human on the outside, at the very least. But, without that confirmation, he was left stumbling around in the dark, fearing what he couldn't see. With that in mind, he wasn't likely to be morphing into his demon face anytime soon; there was too big a risk he wouldn't be able to change back. And that wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

A loud whooshing sound yanked Doyle from his deep thoughts. He reflexively pulled his dangling feet out of the empty pool as a streak of bright light shot upward out of the grungy floor below, temporarily blinding him. As he blinked the spots out of his eyes, he saw a bruised and battered Angel standing several feet from the diving board with a rather flushed looking Darla beside him.

That was probably the fever, if Doyle had to guess. She didn't have long. Not as a human, anyway.

Doyle had pulled himself into a standing position and tossed his latest butt into the pool, as he scrambled toward the place where Angel stood, looking very much shell-shocked by whatever had transpired below. And as Doyle got closer, he could see the angry red marks all along Angel's knuckles—at least half of which may have been self-inflicted.

Angel kept those swollen fists clenched as Doyle approached, his gaze firmly planted somewhere within the pool floor. "It was pointless." He said in a low, dangerous growl. "All that. For nothing… She's still dying."

From her place beside Angel, Darla wrapped herself around his arm, leaning her head against his shoulder. She no longer looked menacing—not that she'd ever been physically imposing. She looked vulnerable and frightened, but also resigned to her fate. Doyle could plainly see that—she was willing to die this time. Accepting of it. And maybe more than a little touched that Angel cared enough to try and save her.

The grief-stricken booty call was seeming more and more likely.

"I'm guessing ya won, though. Yeah?" Doyle asked, although he knew it was a rather callous-sounding question under the circumstances. The reaction he got from Angel only confirmed that.

"For all the good it did." Angel bit back, lifting his eyes out of the pool to finally meet Doyle's straight on.

Doyle felt the relief pour through him as he heard the confirmation. This crucial moment in time had been preserved. They were that much closer to the end. Doyle probably should have worked a little harder to maintain his poker face, because the storm clouds rolled in as Angel began to seethe.

"Did you know?" Angel demanded, his eyes narrowed and all Doyle saw between the folds of the other man's lids was pure fury. "Did you know I couldn't save her?"

Doyle swallowed hard, fighting the urge to stumble away from the intimidating vampire before him. "I wasn't sure." As always, he hated to lie, so he clung to the shreds of truth underneath. "I knew ya had to try."

"I don't mean tonight." Angel clarified. "From the very beginning—did you know she was doomed all along? Even while you were telling me I had to save her—telling me I _could_."

"I said it was her soul needed saving, not her life. From the looks of things, I'd say ya didn't fail in that regard." Doyle reminded him, lacing his voice with apologies rather than defenses. "I didn't know exactly what would happen, man. That's not the way the visions work. They're just puzzle pieces."

Angel's jaw clenched in reply, and he averted his eyes once again. Doyle hated feeling so much anger pouring off his friend, especially knowing it was directed at him. But, Doyle had to be strong; he couldn't bend. For Connor's sake. And it's not like every word he was saying was a lie—Doyle hadn't known things would play out this precise way… he'd merely _hoped_ they would.

"I know this hurts, man." Doyle said, trying his best to be consoling. "Let's get ya back to the hotel—we'll make sure Darla's last days are spent in comfort. It's the best we can do now."

"You go." Angel grumbled back. "I'm going to take Darla back to her place and I'm gonna stay with her until the end." The vampire lifted his stone cold eyes back to Doyle as he quietly drove in the final nail. "I don't need you to help me watch her die."

Doyle felt temporarily paralyzed by the intensity of Angel's glare—the darkness he saw wavering there. It might as well have been a physical blow for all the punch it packed. Doyle watched as the large vampire wrapped a protective arm around the small woman at his side, and lumbered off into the darkness, leaving Doyle alone by the empty pool.

It hurt. Part of pushing Angel toward Darla, meant pushing him away. And it sucked, because Doyle really missed his friend. Not to mention the fact that Doyle could really use one right now. Angel, too, for that matter. They needed each other's friendship more than ever.

Doyle could only hope he'd be getting his friend back after tonight. He raised his eyes to the stars above and silently pleaded to whoever was listening.

 _Please let this end tonight?_

* * *

Doyle closed the front door behind him after entering the dimly lit apartment. He was surprised to find Clover at his feet, scratching at his pants leg for attention. He leaned down and scooped the small cat into his arms. He was used to finding her curled up beside Cordelia in bed; both of his girls, waiting for him to come home. Then again, leaping off the bed and creeping through the apartment seemed like fairly normal catlike behavior, maybe he should be surprised Clover didn't do it more often.

"Whatcha doin' out here all alone, love?" He asked, peering into the wide green eyes for an answer they wouldn't give him. Instead, the only response he got was a soft purr as he rested the furry animal on his chest and proceeded deeper into the apartment, deftly maneuvering around the stacks of boxes that belonged to him.

The living room was a virtual maze once again. This time, instead of the entire Angel Investigations office residing inside, it was just a handful of boxes full of books, a few personal effects and some lesser-worn clothes that belonged to Doyle—his remaining furniture and wall art that Cordelia wouldn't let within a ten foot radius of her place was now residing in the basement of the Hyperion. Perhaps, a little too close to the incinerator for Doyle's liking. The boxes had been sitting there for weeks, still packed up tight. If Cordelia wasn't thrilled that Doyle hadn't been around much, she was probably even _less_ thrilled with the amount of clutter he was causing in her apartment.

Correction, _their_ apartment. He lived there, too, now. Hence the presence of the boxes and the key in his pocket. This wasn't just her place, it was his home.

"Let's go see what Cordy's reading tonight, yeah?" He said to the purring kitten on his shoulder as he headed toward the bedroom door, which was slightly ajar, casting a glow of light into the otherwise dark hallway.

The bedside lamp was on, but Cordelia was out like a light. Her deep, even breathing and the fluttering of activity under her eyelids told Doyle that she'd been asleep for some time, and was now dreaming the night away. Even though it was entirely his own fault that their routine of sleepy pillow talk and snuggling had been discontinued in recent weeks, he was still disappointed. He missed her. Missed coming home to her—missed talking to her until they both drifted off to sleep. And after the night he'd just had, the venom he'd seen in Angel's eyes, he needed her more than ever.

Cordelia didn't move a muscle as he crept softly across the carpeted floor and placed Clover down on his pillow where she belonged. He wouldn't have disturbed Cordelia's peaceful slumber for all the world. Certainly not for his own selfish desire for comfort.

He lifted the half-open book that had slipped from her hands at some point in the evening. _Angela's Ashes_. That made him smile. He'd only recommended it about a hundred times. Finally, it seemed she had listened. If he wasn't mistaken, it was even his copy of the book she'd procured. He gently closed it and circled the bed in order to place it on her nightstand. He then adjusted the fluffy comforter so it covered her up to her neck, knowing she preferred to be cocooned in her sleep. Finally, he leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, which caused her to stir, but not awaken.

Shutting the light and padding through the now pitch black room, Doyle found himself relying on those demon senses he had been so reluctant to yield. They certainly prevented him from crash landing into any bedroom furniture, assuring that he made it to the doorway safely and without disturbing the sleeping occupant of the room. He closed the door with a soft click and then headed to the bathroom to shower away the heavy stench of cigarette smoke that clung to his skin and hair.

If only he could wash away the feeling of dread that still clung to his chest as he thought of what Angel stood to lose if things didn't go as planned. If only he could wash away his own insecurities—his own _demon_.

Maybe tomorrow he could at least get rid of one of those things, but tonight, this would just have to do.

* * *

 **A/N - And now you know what Doyle wants so badly for Angel. Is it what you thought?**

 **Okay, next week I'll post all four parts of Reunion, and then I'll be on a brief hiatus until mid-August. :)**


	23. Reunion, Pt 1

**"Reunion," Part I**

Doyle woke up later than usual; he could tell just by the placement of the sun coming through the windows. Both Cordelia and Clover had already gotten up and started their day, leaving him alone in the bed. The smell of coffee wafting through the bedroom door told him where he'd find Cordelia, and it was with that incentive that he rolled out of bed faster than he thought himself capable. He lifted his wristwatch off the bedside table and wasn't surprised to see that it was well after nine.

Slipping the watch on his arm, and grabbing a pair of sweat pants to throw on over his boxers, he made his way to the kitchen, where he found Cordelia buttering a piece of toast. Clover was at her feet chowing down on a full bowl of food.

"'Mornin', Princess." Doyle greeted the back of her head, trying to sound more chipper than he felt.

She glanced over her shoulder briefly, flashing him something that didn't come close to resembling a smile. He supposed his instinct to slip his arms around her and ravish her right there in the kitchen was something he'd have to ignore. Despite the fact that she looked as stunning as ever in her tiny cotton sleep-shorts and faded pink tank top.

"How'd last night go?" She asked without preamble, as she finished with the butter and placed the lid back on. She turned toward him with a cool demeanor as she crossed toward the refrigerator to return the butter to its place. "Let me guess—Angel won, and Darla will live to hopefully-not-murder another day."

Doyle frowned at her all-business demeanor, and he frowned even deeper as he recalled the night he'd much rather forget—the night when Angel's faith in him had eroded more than Cordelia's had. "He passed the trials… But, Darla couldn't be saved. Turns out ya only get _one_ second-chance. She's already living hers." Doyle watched as Cordelia's eyes averted into the open refrigerator; her face was otherwise unreadable. He wasn't sure if she was actually looking for something or just too aggravated to answer him right away, so he continued in a nervous ramble, trying to fill the awkward silence that loomed. "I guess that's something for ya to keep in mind—in case anything should happen to yours truly. This probably counts as my second chance, yeah?"

"That's not funny." She grumbled, finally grabbing for the orange juice and turning her back on him once more as she headed toward the overhead cabinets to search for a glass. Her short dark hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, which bobbed behind her as she moved.

"I suppose it wasn't, no." He allowed, biting his tongue from saying anything else stupid.

Cordelia took her time filling her glass, addressing Doyle over her shoulder. "How's Angel taking it?"

"About as well as you'd imagine—which is to say, not." Doyle admitted. He was still hovering uncomfortably in the kitchen doorway, while Cordelia finished pouring her juice and returned that to the refrigerator as well. Then, she picked up her plate of food and her full glass and turned to face him full on. He supposed she was forced to look at him, since he was blocking her path; which is why he didn't move. He needed to see those eyes of hers in order to determine just where he was supposed to be standing—probably in the doghouse, by the looks of things.

She gave him an odd expression, as if she were sizing him up, reading something from him that he didn't know he was revealing. Probably because that was exactly what she was doing. It was her way and she was _very_ good at it. "Sounds like the Powers That Be sent you on a wild goose chase." She stated flatly, and there was more than a hint of accusation in those words. "Kinda weird for them to waste your time like that."

Doyle opened his mouth and then closed it again, finally moving out of the doorway so she could pass. He didn't have any clever comebacks, they'd be wasted on her anyhow. She knew he'd been lying yesterday—this was merely confirmation. Without another word, she whipped by him through the doorway and planted herself at the dining table to diligently eat her breakfast.

He stood there fiddling with the drawstring on his sweats, wondering how the heck he would be able to thaw the chill in the air without disclosing anything he couldn't disclose. Well, firstly, he'd need to drink copious amounts of caffeine in order to jumpstart his sleepy brain cells, then, with any luck, his caffeine-fueled-brain could convince his mouth to say something that wasn't completely and utterly lame. So, he moved into the kitchen to fetch himself a cup of coffee and then headed back out into the dining room to take a seat across from Cordelia.

She nibbled at her toast thoughtfully, and he patiently waited until she gave him some small sign of acknowledgment. Eye contact was preferable, but he'd settle for a jab about his late arrival the night before, his still-packed boxes in the living room or even his tendency to leave piles of dirty clothes on the floor. Any type of communication would do.

What he got was the opposite. Cordelia chewed slowly and methodically, pausing every so often to take a sip of her juice. Doyle tapped his foot anxiously, watching her intently, until he couldn't take another minute of the loaded silence.

"Cordy, I'm sorry—" He began.

"You said that already." She reminded him, cutting him off through a mouthful of food.

The stilted, overly formal responses were Cordelia's version of the silent treatment. A surefire sign that Doyle was in hotter water than he'd thought—or colder water. Freezing cold.

"Yeah, well, I have a lot to be sorry for, I know. Starting with the fact that I haven't been around much lately, and things have been a bit… well, ah… y'know." His throat was excruciatingly dry, as he searched for the safest words possible to describe the distance they both knew was there. He wasn't ready to explain the hours he'd spent researching his demon heritage—or simply panicking about it—so he clung to the other half of the truth. The half he could talk freely about—or, more freely anyway. "That won't be the case for much longer, though. Might not seem like it, but last night isn't exactly the failure ya think it was—we're getting real close to the end here."

That seemed to get her attention. Her eyes shot upward at his declaration and he saw about a dozen different emotions flicker through them in a very small window of time. "There you go, talking about the end again." She noted, her voice laced with skepticism. "How close are we? Hours? Days? Weeks?"

"Could already be over." Doyle replied hopefully. Lifting his mug to his lips and pausing before he took a sip. "I won't know for sure 'til I talk to Angel."

"When you say 'over,' you mean she'll be dead, right?" Cordelia guessed, dropping her eyes back onto her plate and leaning her hand against her cheek mournfully. "That's too bad."

That response took Doyle by surprise, and he found himself studying her, trying to figure out what he had missed. "I thought ya didn't wanna save her in the first place?" He pointed out. "What happened to 'boo hoo, she's already had four hundred years' and all that?"

"This is really going to hurt Angel." Cordelia replied matter-of-factly, once again lifting her eyes. This time they were a little harder than before, but her voice remained calm and even-tempered. "You pushed him pretty hard to save her, Doyle. And now that he can't do it, it's going to be so much worse for him."

That hurt. Mostly because it was true. In that moment, it didn't matter what the big picture was or how it was all for the best. In that moment, he had to acknowledge the simple facts—he had pushed Angel to do something he would never be able to do. And Angel had pushed himself extra hard, because he believed that Doyle would always lead him in the right direction. The devastation of losing Darla would be worse because of it; and Doyle worried, not for the first time, if his relationship with Angel would ever recover from this. It wasn't exactly a betrayal, but it probably felt that way to Angel. Doyle placed his coffee mug down on the table, as her words churned the acid in his stomach.

"I hope you're prepared to deal with the fallout." Cordelia continued, toying with what remained of the toast on her plate, appearing to have lost her appetite as well.

"I've dealt with Angel's brooding before, darlin'." Doyle assured her, but nothing about his voice instilled any sense of confidence in his words. He sat back in his chair, shoulders firmly in slump position. "It'll take some time, but eventually… He'll get over it. I hope."

He continued to watch her downcast eyes, firmly planted on her plate. The desire to reach out to her was overwhelming. As with the night before, all he wanted to do was tell her everything… well, not _everything_. He couldn't tell her about the demon stuff, not until he figured that out for himself. But, he certainly wanted to tell her everything else, so that she'd feel like his partner again, rather than an obstacle in his path.

Another moment passed before he gave into the urge, leaning forward and sliding his right hand forward so it rested in the center of the table. "How about you, love? Any chance you'll forgive me sometime this century or should I keep apologizing?"

"I don't want any more apologies, Doyle." She responded with a heavy sigh, and although she didn't say it, he knew what she did want—she wanted for him to be present; for him to no longer have to make those apologies in the first place. Cordelia rarely held back her words, but it was his actions that had opened this chasm, he couldn't fault her for not being willing to close it in the span of one breakfast together, as much as he wanted to do just that.

He kept his hand on the table, silently begging her to meet him half way. "I've been thinking. After this Darla business is over, let's you and me plan that cruise together, yeah? Get some time just for the two of us."

"Yeah." She replied halfheartedly. "That'd be nice."

His eyes didn't leave her face, and it pained him to see her so reserved. It pained him even more to know the reason for her aloof manner was because she didn't believe him.

"Could ya do me a favor here, Cordy, and just say whatever it is you're trying so hard not to." He pleaded, trying not to sound as sulky as he felt. "Y'know I prefer that usual way o' yours—even if what I suspect you're gonna tell me is how big a screw up y'think I am."

"I know your heart was in the right place." She said, confirming his assessment of her inner monologue. She placed both her hands on the table, on either side of her plate; a slight twitch in her fingers, attracted his eyes to their position. "You wanted to change the future—you wanted to save someone that Angel cares about. But, you couldn't and now it's over—time to admit you were wrong, clean up the mess and move _on_ with our lives."

He nodded dumbly at her, afraid to say anything that would confirm or deny what she'd said.

"You made a mistake. _You're_ the one who needs to get over it." Cordelia continued, the proverbial floodgates having been opened. "Nobody died who hasn't been dead already, and Angel hasn't lost his mind, or soul, or any important body parts that I'm aware of." Her hand came to life, finally sliding to where his had been lingering, and he felt a familiar surge of electricity as her fingertips gently brushed over his. "No one expects you to be right all the time. No one except _you_."

She was trying to give him the support she thought he needed. A misguided pep talk. It was the wrong kind of support. He wanted her faith, not her consolation, but he'd take what he could get. Eventually she'd know the truth, and none of this would matter. It would just be a pothole along the way.

"And here I thought you'd tell me I was wrong _all_ the time." He joked, falling back on his humor to take the edge off.

"You have your moments." She teased back, her eyes finally brightening, as they slowly managed to become _them_ again. "I wanna put all this behind us, okay? So, promise me… as soon as Darla is resting in peace, then we do the same—I mean, _alive_ peace, not dead peace. Preferably on a cruise ship. Deal?"

"Yeah, I want that, too." Doyle answered honestly. Peace was definitely what he wanted for them. There was just the unfortunate little matter of Darla, who wouldn't be resting there anytime soon. That probably wasn't going to go over too well…

"Good. That's settled." Cordelia declared, sitting back in her chair and arching a brow at him. "Next order of business—getting rid of those boxes in the living room."


	24. Reunion, Pt 2

**"Reunion," Part II**

"Yo! Anybody home?!"

Cordelia heard Gunn's voice echo through the lobby and she peeked over the second floor railing to see what all his hollering was about. She'd been taking an inventory of all the decorative items that might actually be worth something—if worse came to worst, they could always hold a yard sale to make rent. Assuming that Angel needed some time to recover from his dead Darla depression.

What she saw as she peered into the lobby made her heart lurch. Angel didn't look depressed at all—he looked half-dead. Well, okay, he was all-dead all the time, but he actually looked it now. Gunn was holding him upright, supporting nearly all of his weight. Not to mention, he'd just brought him in the front door of the lobby _in the middle of the day_.

Dropping her pen and notepad on a nearby chair, Cordelia went sprinting down the stairs. "Oh my God! Angel!"

Wesley had also popped out of the back office to join them, his face full of concern. "What happened?" He asked, rushing over to grab Angel by the other shoulder so that both men could assist him to a nearby sofa.

"I don't know. He's been kinda in and out. I only got half the story. The half that didn't make sense." Gunn explained, easing Angel down into the cushions and stepping back. Angel was mumbling incoherently under his breath, his eyes darting around the room erratically. "He's been like this since I found him."

Cordelia looked on with a sinking feeling; she couldn't remember seeing Angel this out of it before, not when he wasn't poisoned or drugged. All her worst intuitions about Darla rose to the surface, as she worried her lip between her teeth. "What do you think she did to him?"

"Where was he?" Wesley inquired, observing Angel with concern.

"Darla's motel." Doyle's voice came from behind them, as he entered from the rear garden bringing with him a thick cloud of smoke. Cordelia briefly scowled in his direction, silently chastising him for his bad habit. She had been under the mistaken impression that he'd quit—or, maybe it wasn't entirely mistaken, he had appeared to quit for a while. He must be really anxious if he was not only smoking again, but doing it somewhere she could so easily catch him. In any case, Doyle wasn't cognizant of Cordelia's disapproval, his concentration was entirely on Angel as he joined their little cluster. "That's where ya found him, yeah?"

"Yeah, that's right." Gunn confirmed. "I managed to get him to the truck without him bursting into flames or anything."

"He's hurt." Wesley noted with concern, indicating a rather nasty burn on Angel's hand as well as additional bruises visible on his face and neck.

"And also out of his mind." Cordelia pointed out, side-eying Wesley for his lack of priorities.

"Place was a wreck." Gunn clarified. "Something went down there, something not good."

"Ah, most o' that is from the trial." Doyle announced, referring to Angel's many injuries. He stepped closer so he could squat down in front of his friend. Snapping his fingers in front of Angel's face, Doyle tried to get the vampire's attention. "Angel, man. Can ya hear me?"

Cordelia shook her head with concern. "I bet he was poisoned." She declared. "That bitch Darla probably took a page out of Faith's handbook. Do you think we should call Buffy and get some slayer blood? Just in case."

"I'm guessing ya didn't see Darla at the motel?" Doyle asked Gunn after flashing Cordelia a brief frown. She didn't know what that was all about. Poison was a valid concern, and slayer blood was the cure. Doyle should know this, having been hit with an arrow laced with the stuff himself. He was just lucky a cure wasn't necessary in his case, since he wasn't a vampire.

"No, man. Just one babbling vampire and a hotel room that looked like Motley Crew had been staying in it." Gunn confirmed.

Wesley leaned over Doyle's shoulder, listening intently to Angel's ramblings. "Wait, what's he saying? Someone made her… drink?"

Cordelia's stomach did a flip-flop as she heard Wesley clarify what she was pretty sure she'd also heard Angel say. He was repeating it over and over. _Someone made her drink._ And in vampire terms, that was a very bad thing. "Uh oh. Please tell me he's just concerned about Darla's sobriety."

"She didn't want to." Angel mumbled, finally focusing on the individuals around him and speaking at a decibel they could all hear. Not that he was making much more sense than when he'd been muttering incoherently. "You think you can resist… but then it's-it's-it's too late."

"Angel, man. Ya gotta focus here." Doyle instructed, taking Angel by the shoulders and forcing the vampire to look directly at him. "What happened in that room? Ya need to tell us everything. D'ya hear me? _Everything_ that happened, starting with when ya left the pool."

Cordelia wrung her hands and eyed Doyle curiously. He was rather intent on siphoning out all the details of the prior night's events, but that seemed a whole lot like burying the lead. From the sound of things, Angel's former-vampire-sire had been remade. Nothing could be more important—or more terrifying—than that. Unless Cordelia was just jumping to false conclusions, and Doyle knew something she didn't—which, to be fair, he usually did.

Also, when did they go to a pool?

Angel blinked several times, clearly still dazed and confused, but trying to string a sentence or two together that made sense to his audience. "We, uh… went back to her place…" He then lurched up off the couch, taking them all by surprise. "She's out there—I have to save her!"

"Well, that's about as much sense as he's made all morning." Gunn noted, as Angel paced away from them toward his office, and began haphazardly opening drawers. They all followed behind him, each wearing expressions that were a mix of concern and confusion.

"You need to save Darla?" Cordelia asked with surprise, turning to the others with a semi-relieved shrug. "Maybe she did just fall off the wagon. Don't worry, Angel. I'm sure we can find her a great twelve step program."

Angel ignored her comments, still ransacking his desk for an unknown object. She sure hoped it wasn't his car keys, because he should definitely not be operating a motor vehicle anytime soon. Doyle huffed loudly as he stepped deeper into Angel's office, attempting to intervene in Angel's mad search for whatever he was so desperate to find.

"Angel, you're delirious, man. You're not makin' sense." Doyle told him. "Stop for a minute, and tell us what happened with Darla!" Cordelia could hardly ever remember hearing Doyle use such a commanding voice with Angel—she imagined it was probably the voice he'd used with small children when they misbehaved, back when he'd been a grade school teacher. It was actually kinda hot.

Apparently, it was also effective, because Angel began spitting out details, even as he continued shuffling through drawers and knocking things to the floor. "She told me—this was her second chance." He explained, somewhat coherently, although his words still sounded much too vague to make complete sense. "She was supposed to die. And I…"

"Ya what, man?" Doyle urged, not at all calmly or gently. He probably wasn't helping Angel's agitated state of mind, with all the nervous energy rolling off him in waves. Cordelia wasn't sure what Doyle's problem was—aside from the fact that he was _way_ too emotionally engaged in Angel's situation—but she also knew better than to interfere. They needed answers after all. Of course, the next question Doyle asked seemed more than a little out of line. "Did ya sleep with her?"

"Doyle!" Cordelia scolded, giving him a dismayed look. "Angel's not evil, he's crazy. I think it's safe to say he kept his pants _on_ last night." Doyle turned to her with a look she couldn't readily identify; he looked a little, dare she say… disappointed?

Angel's voice brought them back to the moment at hand. He had paused his search, a brief calm in the middle of the stormy sea. "I held her. I-I promised her she wouldn't die alone." The momentary stillness ended as Angel jerked forward suddenly and kicked the desk with all his might. A loud snap indicated that some part of it had quite literally cracked under the pressure of the sharp blow. "I should've sensed them coming, but… I was so tired. She came with them, and I couldn't stop her."

" _She_ who?" Wesley spoke gently, trying to assist Doyle's interrogation with a little dose of good cop. "Who came?"

"Drusilla." Angel said, abruptly leaning down and lifting a large wooden stake from his bottom drawer and holding it up for all of them to see.

Cordelia felt her jaw drop reflexively and all the hairs on her neck stood on end. She hadn't been expecting that particular name to pop out of Angel's mouth. And if she could shove it back in there and make it go away, she would gladly do so. "Oh my God." She croaked, backpedaling just a bit as she realized what that meant. "Drusilla is here?"

"I'm guessing this Drusilla chick's got a set of teeth on her." Gunn said unenthusiastically.

" _That_ and she makes crazy-Angel look like the very picture of sanity." Cordelia elaborated, trying to fight the urge to run home, pack all her bags and disappear. "We have Angel's evil alter ego to thank for that. He made her a vampire, right after he flew her over the cuckoo's nest. And now, in a disturbingly incestuous twist, it sounds like she just became 'mommy' to her own grandsire."

Cordelia noticed that Doyle had frozen in place with a look of undisguised horror on his face. His eyes glued to the wooden stake in Angel's hand. She didn't have to wonder if he'd known this would happen or not; he was clearly as unglued as the rest of them by this particular revelation. When he had told her there was an end in sight, this definitely wasn't the end he'd been anticipating. Which, somehow, made it feel very much worse.

"Um, Angel, if what you're saying is true. There's no _saving_ Darla. You do realize that." Wesley reminded him cautiously. "She's already… gone."

"There is a way." Angel insisted, marching toward the door and pushing past all the gaping faces. "I can save her from rising."

Angel continued his procession toward the front door, and suddenly they all snapped into action, chasing after him. Even Doyle, although he still looked completely shell-shocked by the turn of events.

Gunn got to Angel first, grabbing his shoulder and slowing him down. "Unless you've got SPF 1000 around here, you walking out that door is a bad idea. I barely got you back _in_ it without you going all barbecue, remember?"

"I have to stop her." Angel grunted in reply, brushing Gunn off. By that time, Cordelia, Doyle and Wesley had scrambled into Angel's path, making it quite impossible for him to get out the front door without bowling over the three of them. He gritted his teeth, however, and gave each of them a death glare, as he considered which of them he'd fling physically out of the way. Cordelia gripped Doyle's shoulder apprehensively as Angel's gaze found it's way to her.

"Angel, don't you think we need a plan?!" Cordelia yelped, in the voice she usually reserved for haranguing him about a raise. "Plans are good, y'know. Especially when facing two, centuries-old vampires from your family tree, who–and I'm just taking an educated guess here—are _definitely_ working with Wolfram  & Hart."

"Not to mention, we have no idea where to start looking." Wesley added in a more diplomatic tone. "We need to do some research, see if we can narrow down a location where this rising would occur."

Angel didn't reply to Cordelia or Wesley, instead keeping his deadly gaze locked onto Doyle, who was standing in the center of the other two. Now Angel was focused, and looked just lucid enough to be truly frightening. "Get out of the way. I _need_ to get to her before she rises!"

"Ya need to get yourself together, man!" Doyle retorted, standing his ground, finally seeming to have gotten his wits back after his temporary dumbness. "It's daylight. You and I both know vampires don't rise in the day. Go get yourself some sleep—that way you'll be ready to find 'er when the sun's down."

Angel glowered at his best friend for a long beat, and Cordelia wasn't entirely sure he'd back down. She wasn't sure that Doyle was sure that Angel would back down. But, finally, the vampire retreated, tossing the stake on the reception counter as he passed. It clattered against the surface and then rolled to the edge, but didn't fall. Angel wordlessly made his way to the staircase and stomped upward toward his room.

"Houston, I'd say we have a big ass problem." Gunn announced, once Angel had disappeared.

"Make that two big ass problems." Cordelia answered, as her heart pounded loudly in her chest. She felt the panic rising within her. This was officially the worst-case scenario that didn't involve Angel turning evil. Not one, but _two_ vampires with an intimate connection to Angel were in L.A. and working with their nemeses. And on top of that, Angel was twisted up in more knots than you'd find at a Boy Scout jamboree.

Cordelia looked over to Doyle for some kind of reassurance or comfort or anything at all, but all she saw was fear... and something that looked vaguely like devastation.

And that's how she knew things were about to get a whole lot worse.


	25. Reunion, Pt 3

**"Reunion," Part III**

Cordelia tapped her fingernails rhythmically on the countertop, staring idly at the front door of the lobby that was blanketed in the darkness from outside. Waiting sucked. Especially, when you were waiting for your vampire boss and his loyal sidekick, aka your boyfriend, to return from slaying a newly risen vampire as well as the crazy bitch who made her.

"Cordelia, do you mind?" Wesley had come up from behind her rubbing at his forehead with obvious distress. He gestured to her tapping on the countertop in answer to her blank expression. "By the time they return, I'll be quite as mad as Drusilla if you don't stop that racket."

"Sorry." She said, lifting her hand away from the granite countertop and searching for something else to diffuse her nervous energy. "Maybe I should reorganize the files or something."

"I'm sure Doyle will be just fine." Wesley added as she moved toward the filing cabinets to make good on her project to keep herself occupied. "He knows how to handle himself in a fight—and with any luck they'll dispose of Darla before there's even a chance for a fight."

Cordelia sighed heavily as she swung open the top drawer and began perusing the hanging folders contained within. "What makes you think it's Doyle I'm worried about?" She huffed in reply. "I mean, there are so many things to worry about right now. Take your pick."

"'Cause you're always worrying about your man when he's out on a job without you." Gunn supplied, popping up from where he had been lounging on the circular sofa and crossing to the reception counter, reminding Cordelia that he was present rather than backing up 'her man' and Angel in the field. "Why'd he go with Angel, anyway?"

"Because he's Doyle." Wesley answered, with a hint of undisguised resentment. "Although, I do agree that you would have been a better companion under the circumstances."

"No argument there. I'm way better at slaying vamps than the little guy—with or without his spikes." Gunn declared proudly. "But, that ain't what I meant. There were some bad vibes earlier—as in, maybe the dynamic duo ain't so dynamic right about now."

"Just a little lovers' spat." Cordelia said dryly, not bothering to look up from her file organizing. "There are three things you can always count on—death, taxes and Doyle being at Angel's side."

"Ain't Doyle supposed to be at _your_ side." Gunn pointed out, causing Cordelia to stop what she was doing and look up. She had thought that, too, most of the time. Certainly not lately.

"Of course." She replied, feigning an air of confidence that she didn't necessarily feel on the inside. "That goes without saying. I meant, a side other than mine…"

Wesley piped back in, blessedly pulling the focus away from a slowly drowning Cordelia. "Yes, well, as I see it, that is part of the problem. Angel goes to Doyle and _only_ Doyle—he has a habit of cutting the rest of us out, even if we are better suited for the task at hand. All this Darla business, for example, Angel looked to Doyle for guidance, every step of the way."

That commentary took Cordelia by surprise, and she found herself shutting the file drawer, no longer interested in occupying herself with meaningless tasks. "What are you trying to say, Wesley?" She demanded, folding her arms and giving Wesley a withering look. "Doyle is a messenger and a guide—it's his job to offer _guidance_. Are you implying that he shouldn't be trusted to do what the Powers That Be chose him to do?"

"That isn't what I said." Wesley clarified, holding up his hands in supplication. "I trust Doyle with my life, as I do any member of this team, but I do think he's too close to the situation to remain objective. He was quite insistent that we help Darla, and now that we've failed in that regard—I think that maybe he's lost some of his own perspective."

Well, there was the hammer hitting the proverbial nail on the head. Cordelia opened her mouth instinctively, wanting to defend the man she loved. But, considering she'd all but told Doyle the very same thing that morning, she couldn't say that Wesley was wrong. Therefore, her mouth closed once again, and her eyes dropped to the floor.

It seemed as if Wesley was about to say more, when the front doors to the lobby flew open, with Angel and Doyle racing through them frantically.

"Everyone gear up! Grab something sharp. We need to move fast." Angel ordered, by way of greeting.

"Don't think I gotta ask how it went." Gunn observed as Angel made a beeline to the weapons cabinet at the far end of the room, while Doyle bent over to catch his breath.

Angel's answer was mostly spoken into the cabinet as he yanked weapons out and piled them into his arms. "They're out there, both of them." He turned back toward the group, handing a weapon to Gunn and then placing the pile in his arms on the reception counter with a loud clattering. "They're separated, for now. We need to make sure they stay that way, or things are going to get very ugly."

Doyle stood up, still breathing heavily. He didn't say anything, but Cordelia could see the worry lines etched across his forehead. She circled around the counter, heading straight for him even as she heard Wesley and Gunn direct their questions toward Angel behind her back.

"You know where they are?" Wesley inquired.

"Not exactly." Angel responded.

"So, where we going _?"_ Gunn wondered.

"To the people responsible for bringing them here." Was Angel's nonchalant reply, as he chose a weapon for himself from the array he'd spread out on the countertop. "We're going to Wolfram & Hart."

By that point, Cordelia had reached Doyle, and after hearing Angel's rather absurd declaration, she was no longer interested in speaking to her paramour in the company of others. She grabbed him by the arm, urging him away from the group. He went willingly, but cast a frustrated look in Angel's direction as the space was increased between them.

"Wolfram & Hart?!" Cordelia asked in an exaggerated whisper, as soon as they were far enough away not to be easily overheard. "Does that sound like a good plan to you?!"

"Not particularly, no." Doyle replied in a muted tone.

"Then why aren't you stopping him?" She demanded, her eyes flashing with disbelief.

Doyle shifted his weight, averting his eyes to the floor and crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive posture. "'Cause I can't, darlin'." He admitted honestly, and not without regret. "I told him this was a bad idea, but he doesn't wanna hear it. He's—"

"Obsessed." She finished for him with a heavy frown. "Gee, I hadn't noticed."

"Yeah. He's a bit on the fanatical side, at the moment." Doyle agreed, with a resigned sigh. "I'm going with him, 'cause what other choice do I have? Last thing I need is for him to get himself killed doing something stupid."

Cordelia snorted derisively, as she raised her eyes to the ceiling. "I could say 'I told you so,' about the whole helping Darla thing blowing up in our faces, but I'm much too mature for that."

There was something in Doyle's eyes that made her stomach drop—something she wasn't used to seeing there. He was genuinely scared; more scared than she'd ever seen him. "Listen, Cordy, I think ya should stay here—or, better yet, go back to your place where a vampire can't enter. Just in case things go more sideways than they already are."

"Are you kidding?!" Cordelia squawked with annoyance, dropping any attempt at keeping her voice down. "Now you're trying to sideline me?! Last time I checked, I was a valuable part of this team, buster!"

"You are!" He assured her. "Y'know ya are, but your life is valuable to me. And I don't know what's gonna happen tonight with these two on the loose."

"Now you know how the rest of us feel all the time!" She shot back. "We never know anything, so welcome to the club. And, for the record, if the rest of you are doing something as incredibly stupid as marching into Wolfram & Hart guns a blazing, then I'm coming with you! And there's nothing you can do to stop me!"

"Doyle! Cordelia!" Angel shouted, from across the lobby, causing them both to jerk their heads toward him in unison. "Let's go."

With that, Angel stormed out the front doors, with Gunn hot on his tail and Wesley following more reluctantly behind the two of them. Cordelia wasted no more breath on fighting the point, she strode toward the counter, grabbing herself a crossbow and the small first aid kit she kept on hand at all times and followed in the path previously tread by the others, with Doyle close on her heels.

It didn't matter that she really didn't want to go, and truthfully, was terrified beyond belief. She wasn't going to fare any better hiding in her apartment, worrying herself sick over the others.

There was a fight to be fought, and she was going to be a part of it. For better or for worse.

* * *

"Angel, there's no good to be done, if we don't get there in one piece." Wesley spoke up from the back seat as Angel sped through the streets of Los Angeles at a breakneck speed.

Gunn, who was seated in the passenger seat, was holding on for dear life as he kept his eyes focused on the front windshield. Doyle sat on one side of the backseat, with Cordelia squashed beside him and Wesley on the far end. Under normal circumstances, Doyle usually preferred sitting shotgun, but with Angel driving as erratically as he was, the backseat was probably marginally safer. Plus, he'd opted to stay close to Cordelia, who shouldn't be there in the first place.

Boy, he'd done a brilliant job of offending her back at the hotel, suggesting she should hide out while the rest of the team fought Angel's battle. He would have been better off saying nothing, but he couldn't help himself. As he stood there, staring at the woman he loved, all he could see was the bloodbath from his vision—the one that Cordelia had been right in the middle of. Doyle had thought he could keep her safe simply by keeping her in the dark, but now he wasn't so sure that was the case. So he'd done the only other thing he could think to do—he'd _told her_ to stay out of the fight. Told her to stay _safe_.

Instead, he had only succeeded in upsetting her right before putting her in extreme danger. Here she was, in a speeding car, barreling toward her potential death. And, there wasn't a damn thing Doyle could do to stop it.

"We don't have much time." Angel replied, seeming to increase his speed rather than decrease it.

This was bad. Angel was out of control, and although Doyle had been telling the truth when he said he didn't know what would happen with Darla and Drusilla this evening, that didn't mean he wasn't fully aware of the _possibilities_. The very dark, very bloody possibilities that should be avoided at all costs.

He silently chastised himself yet again. He had been a fool to think things would be so simple—that all of this would be tied up in a perfect little bow the previous evening. The trials, the consummation, and then goodbye Darla. See you in nine months. When had anything ever been that simple? Doyle's optimism—and his desire to get to that finish line—had been his downfall, setting him up for the ultimate disappointment when he was forced to face reality. It could never be that simple.

Angel hadn't slept with Darla last night, and now she was a vampire again. That was a twist Doyle hadn't foreseen, and honestly, would have never imagined. Not that any part of this was based in logic, but Doyle had naturally assumed Connor's conception would take place in Darla's _human_ body and that she wouldn't be turned into a vampire until a later point in the timeline. Turns out, he had assumed wrong. And now, he wasn't sure what would happen next. Aside from the ever growing possibility that there'd be a room full of dead lawyers before the night was through—like _hell_ , would he let Cordelia end up there. Over his own dead body, if that's what it took.

Doyle felt like he was shouting at a brick wall. Or, at this rate, crashing into one.

"Aaaaaarrrrgh." Doyle groaned as the beginnings of a vision took over his mind. He slumped forward as his senses were brutally assaulted, and just like that, gone was the fear of dying in a fiery car crash. Instead, he got treated to a very up close and personal preview of what a bullet does to a human brain when entering at very close proximity.

"Angel, stop the car!" Cordelia demanded, as she held Doyle's slumped form close to her chest and tenderly rubbed his head. No matter how annoyed she was at him, she never failed him when he needed her. And he needed her now, as his body convulsed, caught in the grip of the Higher Powers' latest delivery.

"Fine, fine. I'll slow down, okay." Angel said, finally doing just that, even though he was still technically speeding.

"Doyle's having a vision!" She insisted emphatically.

"No, not now." Angel twisted his body to try and see Doyle, who was seated behind him, making it an impossible maneuver.

Meanwhile, Gunn leaned over to place a steadying hand on the steering wheel. "He's probably seeing us wrapped around a lamppost. Eyes on the road, bro!"

Doyle groaned again as the vision subsided, gingerly lifting his head from where it had landed in Cordelia's lap. His throat had gone very dry, but he still managed to choke out a few words. "Turn the car around."

Angel had turned back to face the road, and he shook his head at Doyle's request. "I can't do that. We're almost there."

"I'm not asking!" Doyle snapped back at the vampire in the front seat, losing what few slivers remained of his patience. His head ached with the memory of the bullet digging through flesh, along with the general unpleasantness that surrounded all visions. "I'm telling ya. Turn the car around _now_ —that's an order, and it's not coming from me!"

With a giant unneeded sigh and a high-pitched screech of the tires, Angel pulled a U-turn in the middle of the intersection and headed back in the opposite direction. Doyle slumped back into Cordelia's lap, with a modicum of relief. He felt her fingers gently trace patterns in his hair, and he closed his eyes trying to focus on the pleasantness of that sensation, rather than the waves of nausea and throbbing pain still lingering in his head.

For the second time in as many days, Doyle felt like the Powers That Be were not only watching him and guiding him, but were actually on his side. And despite the debilitating ache they'd caused in his head, he silently thanked them again.

 _She'll be safe now_ , he thought. _Cordelia will never get anywhere near that bloody room..._


	26. Reunion, Pt 4

**"Reunion," Part IV**

Doyle sat perched on the edge of Angel's desk with his feet up on a chair, his shoulders slumped and his head dropped practically into his lap. The others all stood in a row, listening in quiet horror to the words Angel spoke. Doyle didn't need to listen. He'd already had a front row seat courtesy of his visions.

The Powers That Be had certainly been on Doyle's side tonight—they'd sent a vision right in the nick of time. And as a result, Angel and company had raced to save a kid who was willing to shoot himself in the head in order to raise the demon, Morgog, rather than racing after Darla and Drusilla. Now Cordelia was standing in Angel's office, instead of lying in a pool of her own blood. To say Doyle was relieved by that particular outcome was a rather vast understatement—there was simply no other outcome he would've allowed tonight.

The problem was the rest of the outcome was less than desirable. Much, much less. There was a room full of dead lawyers, for one thing. And if that wasn't bad enough, there was also the little matter of Angel's proximity to those dead lawyers. While Cordelia had remained safe at Doyle's side, miles away from the massacre in the wine cellar, Angel had done no such thing. Yes, he'd stayed with the team long enough to stop the teenager from shooting himself, as evidenced by the kid's broken wrist. But the vampire had paid no attention to the precarious situation or the troubled kid who was at the center of it all. Angel had walked into that room, smashing, and breaking and shouting… and then he'd stormed right back out the front door without a second thought.

Of course, Doyle had gone racing after his friend, trying to provide that second thought. He'd thrown himself in Angel's path, begging his friend to stick around and see the case through to the end, the way the Powers That Be intended. _The good fight, yeah?_ That's what all this was about. Angel had all but batted Doyle aside, assuring him that he planned to fight the good fight by killing Darla.

Naturally, Doyle had resorted to a direct warning at that point. "It's probably already too late, man. Darla and Drusilla are gonna be unleashing hell tonight. That's a fact. And if you walk away from this—from our mission sent by the Higher Powers—there's a good chance you'll be blamed for their actions."

"There's also a chance I'll stop them." Angel had growled back, right before he shook Doyle off a second time, jumped into his convertible and disappeared into the night. Leaving Doyle behind in the dust to wonder if maybe Angel was right—maybe he _could_ stop Darla and Drusilla. Or maybe Doyle had to accept that he couldn't change everything. Some things were out of his control—and right now, Angel was most definitely one of those things.

Doyle had to be thankful for what he had been able to prevent… he also had to finish the mission in Angel's stead. Therefore, he had watched Angel drive off into the darkness and then returned to Cordelia, who was comforting the distraught teenager. And Wesley, who was trying to instill the fear of Morgog into the boy. And Gunn, who was dismantling what remained of the demonic altar, ensuring they wouldn't have any unexpected visitors. Each of them seemed more than a little disappointed to see Doyle return alone, but they really had no idea how disappointed they should be.

Not until now, that was.

Angel had just told them. Sitting there, behind his desk, without even the slightest inkling of remorse. Angel had told them all how he found Darla and Drusilla with a room full of hostages. Wolfram & Hart employees, every single one. Human, every single one. And now, they were dead. Every. Single. One.

Instead of being too late to stop the massacre in the wine cellar of the Manners' residence, Angel had been right on time… to lock the door.

"And you just walked away?" Wesley was the first to speak, although the horrified expressions on the faces of all the occupants of the room, save Angel, spoke volumes. Granted, Doyle wasn't looking at the other horrified expressions. That would mean he'd have to lift his eyes away from the floorboards, which he wasn't keen on doing anytime soon.

"No, I walked to my car and then I drove away." Angel replied matter-of-factly.

Gunn spoke next, in a tone Doyle had never heard him use before. It sounded a lot like disgust. "You didn't do _anything_?"

And finally Cordelia. Her voice sounded tight, as if she could barely push the words through her vocal chords, so difficult were they to speak. "You just let all those people die. For no reason."

"They weren't exactly innocent." Angel rebutted, no waning of his confidence. "They brought Darla and Dru into this, and they paid the price."

Wesley again, sounding a little more angry than the first time. "You could have stopped them."

"And I will." Angel said easily.

"When?" Cordelia spat back, she too sounded angrier, more disturbed. "After they've finished off all the people you don't like? You're supposed to be the good guy, Angel. Good guys don't do that sort of thing."

"I gotta agree." Gunn spoke again. "You went too far. I'm not down with this sorta game plan."

"I think your soul is on the fritz, Angel." Cordelia added. "We can't work under these conditions."

"Cordelia is right." Wesley agreed, and Doyle could just imagine the tall Englishman puffing up his chest as he oft did when he was being morally superior. Of course, in this instance, he was every bit so. "There needs to be a change around here. Effective immediately."

Angel didn't answer right away, but the long beat of silence hung in the air like a drumroll. Even before the vampire spoke, Doyle knew what he was going to say. Not because he'd seen it happen in a vision—no, this was something he hadn't been privy to, either because it had never happened before, or because it wasn't important enough to be included. But, he had been listening, and he knew there was only one answer Angel would have for his employees in his current state of mind. "You're right." He said. "You're all fired."

The only sound that followed Angel's declaration was the legs of his desk chair as he pushed it back and stood from behind his desk, slowly and deliberately leaving the room. Right before he'd gotten all the way out the door the vampire paused. Doyle lifted his head, instinctively knowing that Angel's next words would be directed at him. "You can show them out."

And then Angel was gone, leaving three unhinged jaws in his wake and one heavy-hearted half-demon. On the one hand, Doyle was glad he wouldn't have to go groveling to Angel to keep his job. On the other hand, he now had to face the others—his friends, his girlfriend—as something other than a teammate.

"What just happened?" Cordelia asked, looking completely dazed, her eyes searching each of the other sets of eyes in the office.

"I do believe we got sacked." Wesley answered, with an expression not that far off from Cordelia's.

Gunn cocked his head in Doyle's direction, causing the other two to follow in suit. "Not all of us."

Doyle stared dumbly at the three of them, having been put on the spot in the worst way possible. Maybe that had been exactly Angel's intention. To punish Doyle for the part he'd played in Darla's death and subsequent rebirth into darkness. To punish Doyle for the darkness he'd inadvertently brought out in Angel.

"Will you stay?" Wesley wondered, and Doyle could see his question reflected in Cordelia's eyes as well. Doyle found himself staring at her intently, bracing himself for impact even as Wesley continued his inquisition. "Visions aside, I can't imagine you'd want to work for him after what he's done."

The tense pause that came before Doyle's answer had probably already given it away, because he saw Cordelia's expression change even before he finally opened his mouth. "I don't really have a choice, bud."

Impact.

Cordelia shook her head violently, stepping closer to Doyle with her eyes blazing fiercely. "You've got to be kidding me!" Her lips started to tremble and she abandoned whatever else she had planned to say in favor of storming out—out of Angel's office and straight out the front door.

"Cordy, wait!" Doyle called, hopping off the desk to chase after her. He caught the disapproving looks from Wesley and Gunn as he too fled the room. He could live with their condemnation, but Cordelia was another story. He needed her to understand. He had to make her understand.

Doyle pushed through the lobby doors, and stepped into the moonlit courtyard that made up the front entrance to the hotel. His eyes adjusted rapidly enough to see that Cordelia hadn't gone far. She had stopped at the front gate, leaning against the wrought iron beams with her arms folded across her chest and a scowl firmly planted on her face. He silently wished he could reason with the wrought iron fence instead of her, he might stand more of a chance.

"Cordy… can we talk about this?" He asked as he approached her, tempted to reach out and grab her so she wouldn't try and escape again. But, he shoved his hands deep in his pockets instead and she mercifully stayed put. Like the block of granite she was.

"If you've regained the power of speech." She snapped back at him.

This wasn't a promising start. "I know you're angry—"

"I'm not angry, I'm furious!" She shouted, taking her weight off the iron fence and standing up straight. Her arms remained folded across her chest, making it clear there was a barrier between them. A barrier named Angel. "He fired me, Doyle! _Me_ of all people! I'm not saying he was right to fire Wesley or Gunn, but _me_? How could he?! I started this thing with the both of you. I've been here since the beginning. Actually, I was here _before_ the beginning when he was still making goo-goo eyes at Buffy! And now he's just tossing me out because I wouldn't keep my mouth shut like a certain cowardly half-demon."

He supposed it did look that way to the others. That they had done the dirty work of chastising Angel for his wrongdoing, while Doyle sat idly by staring at the floor. That is, in fact, what had physically happened. But, in no way did Doyle's silence translate into approval. He simply knew Angel well enough to know when to back off—and if there was ever a time to back off, it was after Angel had let a room full of people be ripped to shreds. There was no reasoning with that. There was no changing it—it was already done. All Doyle could do now was make sure it wouldn't happen again.

"Why didn't you say anything?!" Cordelia demanded angrily. "It's bad enough you wouldn't call him out on the room full of dead lawyers—which is inexcusable, by the way—but what about my wrongful termination, huh? You had no objections to that?"

"I'm sorry he fired ya, love. I really am." Doyle said apologetically, edging a little closer to her in the darkness so she could see that he meant it, his hands remained in his pockets. "But maybe it's for the best, yeah—unless I've really misinterpreted things, Angel's about to wage a war. And firing you may have been his way of protecting ya. From himself most of all."

"What a load of bull." Cordelia countered, her eyes burning even brighter with fury. "You wanted him to fire me!"

"Wha—!" His hands flew from his pockets as her accusation took him by surprise. "O'course, I didn't want that!"

He couldn't deny that she'd be safer this way—far away from whatever crazy thing Angel might decide to do next. But Doyle had never even imagined this particular scenario, much less had the presence of mind to desire it.

"Just a few hours ago you told me to go home and hide." She icily reminded him. "Not to mention that you've been cutting me out for weeks. Letting Angel fire me seems like a natural next step!"

"I didn't _let_ him do anything, darlin'." Doyle argued in return. "Angel's got free will, last time I checked. I might give him advice, but he doesn't always take it. Tonight being a shining example of that."

Cordelia stared him down, visibly unimpressed by anything she'd heard from Doyle thus far. "So, you weren't on board with him locking a bunch of _human beings_ in a wine cellar with two vampires and letting them have their fill?"

"How could ya even ask me that?" Doyle replied defensively, trying not to be offended by her insinuation. Trying, but failing.

"You still work for him." Cordelia pointed out, maintaining her hostile tone and posture. "That looks like a ringing endorsement to me."

Doyle couldn't have furrowed his brow any deeper without pulling a facial muscle. "I'm not staying 'cause I agree with what he did. I'm staying 'cause I don't. Angel needs me. Now more than ever." Doyle explained, trying to control his temper, but it was getting hard to be calm in the face of her accusations against his character, which were especially painful because they were coming from _her_. "He's being pulled into the darkness right now. More than that, he's letting himself go. If no one's on the other end pulling back, what d'ya think's gonna happen?"

She exhaled deeply, pausing before she spoke again and finally dropping her hands to her sides, physically opening up the space between them. Her voice, like her posture, became marginally less argumentative, but that wasn't saying much. "I think things will get very dangerous." She said simply. "But you said it yourself. You can't control him. What makes you think you stand a chance now? If he's willing to let himself go—to let us all go—then maybe it's time you do the same, before he drags you down with him."

"I can't do that." Doyle replied matter-of-factly, and not without apologies. "Y'know why I can't."

"Not anymore, I don't." Cordelia disagreed, with a firmly arched brow. "Honestly, Doyle, have you changed anything in this timeline for the better? Have you stopped even one bad thing from happening? Do you ever think that maybe you've only made things worse?"

There were not many more hurtful things she could have said in that moment. And Doyle felt himself react physically. His face, his posture—she had taken a cheap shot, and it wounded him deeply. To her credit, she seemed to be equally as effected by her own words, as if the pain she'd caused him had reflected right back on her.

Her voice sounded less confident when she began speaking again, betraying some of her regret. "I didn't mean _you_ made them worse, I just meant—"

"I know what ya meant." Doyle retorted in a low, bitter tone. He couldn't say much more than that, he was too busy swallowing the rapidly forming lump in his throat. His eyes dropped to the ground between their two pairs of feet—lifting them would be a chore, so heavy was the weight he felt. The weight of her disappointment. The weight of his own.

She took some of the abrasiveness out of her voice, but still spoke unapologetically. "The real problem here is that you've spent so much time obsessing about the future—you stopped paying attention to right now _."_ She said earnestly. Perhaps she was waiting for the eye contact that he could no longer give her. " _Right now_ , Doyle, whatever you wanted to happen, _isn't_. Because our boss—sorry, _your_ boss and my boss- _former_ , has boarded the one-way train to psychoville and no amount of advice from you is going to get him to de-board. You know what happens if he keeps going in that direction? I'll give you a hint—it rhymes with Mangelus."

"He's not gonna lose his soul." Doyle grunted in reply, but what proof could he offer aside from his own word? And, that didn't seem to matter much to her at this point.

"You don't know that—you just want it to be true." She shot back, regaining some of her more aggressive tone from earlier. "And, hey, at the rate Angel's going, he may not even have to turn evil in order to turn on you. I don't know why you'd want to risk your life for someone you can't trust anymore."

"I do trust him! More than he trusts himself. More than you trust me, based on what I'm hearing." Doyle acknowledged resentfully. Maybe deep down inside there was a niggling voice of doubt buried under the confident layer he was trying to show Cordelia. He just wasn't sure if the voice was his own, or if it belonged to her. "I won't walk away from him, Cordelia. Angel needs a connection to humanity, whether he likes it or not. We can't let him cut himself off."

He saw the flash of rage in her eyes even before she opened her mouth to rail on him once again, and he quickly realized what his error had been. " _We_ aren't letting him do anything! Angel's got free will, remember?" She barked his own words right back at him. " _He_ just severed his connection to humanity—me, Wesley, Gunn, all humans. While you buried your half-demon head in the sand. So, don't pretend you're doing something noble standing by Angel when the rest of us were unjustly kicked to the curb!"

Doyle had turned his back on her by this point. He had to turn around and collect himself or he wasn't sure what he was going to find himself shouting back. It wasn't that he didn't sympathize with her anger, and her hurt—he most certainly did. He'd felt for her, and he'd come out to the courtyard to diffuse those feelings—to soothe them. To do the opposite of whatever this was, which was ending up hurt and angry himself, along with frustrated and exhausted and disillusioned. And _done_.

He couldn't do this anymore. This argument—this exercise in futility—was doing them no good. They were just going around in circles. What he needed to do was walk away, leave the fight unfinished and give them both time to simmer down. She had a perfectly good couch he could sleep on. After her blood stopped boiling and his wounds scabbed over, they could revisit this topic with cooler heads. Before they both said things they would regret.

Then again, she wasn't done talking yet.

"You know what hurts the most right now?" Cordelia spoke from behind him, and he could hear the mixture of hardness and vulnerability that encapsulated who she was as a person. Sharp of tongue, warm of heart. And entirely capable of breaking his. "You won't so much as consider walking away from Angel… but you're more than willing to walk away from _me_."

That was the last thing Doyle had expected to come out of her mouth, and he was utterly gob smacked. He whirled back in her direction so she could see his bewildered expression for herself. "Hey, hey, hold on a minute here!" He sputtered, a panicky feeling rising in his chest as he met her steely gaze. "Just what's that supposed to mean?!"

"You heard me!" She bit back at him.

"I'm not walking away from anything!" He yelled in reply, losing any sense of calm he'd been able to cling to earlier in the argument. "Not you, not Angel. Not anyone. That's the point!"

Cordelia stood her ground defiantly, but he could see the small emotional cracks that were permeating the otherwise frosty surface. "How do you think this is going to work, Doyle?" She croaked, her hurt feelings starting to leak into her words. "I'll just be sitting at home constantly worrying about you, never knowing where you are or what you're doing. Never knowing if you aren't there because you're busy with a case or too drunk to come home or because you're _dead!_ No, thank you!"

"Is this 'cause I didn't call a few times?" Doyle asked numbly. His heart was pounding in his ears, his blood running cold in his veins. And for good reason—he could see now that this fight _was_ going to end tonight, and it wasn't going to end well.

"In the past few weeks, I've barely seen you outside of work." She clarified. "You've been glued to Angel's side—always with the excuse that he _needs_ you."

"That's not an excuse—Angel does need me." Doyle debated half-heartedly, rubbing at his forehead, wishing she hadn't steered them down this dead end. "I already said I was sorry for all that. And things are gonna change—."

"What things?" Cordelia asked rhetorically, observing Doyle closely. "Nothing's changed… except for _us_." Those words landed as gently as a pile of bricks, but she didn't stop there. "That's why you're gonna have to choose—stay with him or leave with me."

She might as well have punched him in the gut. She was giving him an ultimatum, which on top of being incredibly unfair, was just plain hurtful. Doyle felt a burst of anger flare up within him, even as he tried to swallow it back down. "I'm not choosing anything, Princess. Angel's my job, you're my girlfriend. Normal people get to have both, yeah?"

"Newsflash, Doyle. We aren't normal people!" She fired back. "Never have been."

"Please, don't do this." He warned, giving up an attempt at formulating a reasonable argument. There was no reason to be had here. He could see that by the slight shimmer of tears that had begun collecting in her eyes. She wasn't the type of woman to cry easily, but her dam was about break. "I'm begging ya, take it back."

Her only reply was a loud sob as she lifted her hand up to cover her mouth. Only a few tears had been rebellious enough to break loose. They slipped down her cheeks and dripped all the way to her jawline. "There's your answer." She gasped, sounding just as broken as Doyle felt. "You're not choosing me."

"I do choose you!" He cried out in desperation, his throat was tight and raw. "I'm not the one who's planning to walk away here—that'd be you! I'm the one standing here begging ya not to. Now, please, Cordy, think about what you're saying—don't do this to us."

"Angel let a room full of people _die_ tonight, and you're still putting him before me." She responded, her voice thick with tears, her shoulders trembling ever so slightly. "You're the one doing this to us."

Doyle stood there staring at her long and hard, having no comeback for her final declaration, despite how very _wrong_ it was. She wasn't interested in Doyle's logic, or his apologies—nothing, short of him walking away from Angel was going to satisfy her. And that was the one thing he couldn't do. Lying, pretending to consider an alternative—these things would get him nowhere. And somewhere deep down inside she knew it, which is probably what hurt him most of all. He had no weapon in his arsenal that would rescue him in this battle. Surrender was the only option… even if it would mean leaving the fractured remains of his heart right there on the ground.

"I can't give ya what you're asking for." He said in a broken whisper, and he felt the acid churn in his stomach as he said it. As he gave her the only answer he could, which was the exact opposite of what she wanted to hear.

She closed her eyes then, squeezing all the unshed tears out of her eyes and letting them stream down her face unchecked. God, all he wanted to do was hold her. Because despite the unfairness of the situation, his own anger couldn't hold a candle to how much he cared for her and desperately didn't want to lose her.

When she opened her eyes again, they had frosted over. No more tears. Only a wall of ice remained, and the ice queen secured herself behind it, lifting her palm to wipe away the wetness from her cheeks. "It's a good thing you never had time to unpack your boxes." She said with quiet resolve.

Stabbing pains. He was feeling stabbing pains in his chest, and he wondered for a moment if he could be having a heart attack. Or if it was just one of the shards of ice from her eyes that had pierced his body. He actually lifted a hand to his chest reflexively, and bit back his own wave of tears that threatened to come unbidden.

Cordelia, on the other hand, had squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and moved away from him. She only stopped long enough to fire one more shot across the bow. "We're done."

And then she was gone. She'd headed back into the hotel, instead of fleeing it. Probably going to pack her belongings and leave the premises for good. Along with Wesley and Gunn who were waiting there for her. Ready to show the solidarity that Doyle, apparently, wouldn't.

All Doyle could do was stand there, trying to figure out how this had happened. Trying to remember how to breathe.

He tried to tell himself that she was just angry; that she'd get over it. He'd talk to her tomorrow, or the next day; he'd grovel like never before and they'd settle things properly. But, he had seen those walls come up, and he knew her well enough to know she wouldn't be easily conquered. It had been so long since he'd been frozen out like that—completely cut off from her.

It seemed the Host had been right. One way or the other.

* * *

 **A/N - Eek! I'm sorry for the emotionally devastating cliffhanger! I assure you I wasn't intending to be cruel, it just worked out this way naturally, and well, maybe it's a good thing, because I'm guessing you will all be very eager to read the next chapters after my little break. I worked really hard to make this very dramatic moment feel earned and organic to the story; I really hope you'll come back for more even if your heart's a little broken right now...**


	27. Redefinition, Pt 1

**"Redefinition," Part I**

Doyle's head pounded in time with each thump of Angel's fist. He stood at the top of the basement steps watching his best friend pummel a punching bag and rubbing at his own bloodshot eyes.

This had been going on for hours. Angel, alone in the basement, working out his rage on inanimate objects all in the guise of "training." And Doyle, prowling around the hotel lobby, loading himself up with aspirin and caffeine and trying to resist the urge to crawl back into his bed. No, not _his_ bed. It was just _a_ bed—a bed in a room in the hotel. He didn't have a bed that felt like his anymore.

He had, of course, been revisiting an old friend in recent nights. An old friend named Jameson. He knew it was the worst possible way to deal with his problems, but there weren't any better ways currently presenting themselves. He just wanted the numbness and obliteration he could find at the bottom of that bottle. Added bonus, all that drinking had really dulled his demon senses—he hadn't felt this human in ages. This _mortal_.

Today, however, all his bottles were empty. So, today he would have to deal with the rather unpleasant repercussions of drowning his sorrows. Especially, since he hadn't overdone it to this extreme in... well, probably close to a year. He had found something else he wanted more than the drink, which meant he didn't need to drink as much.

Right now, he had nothing. Nothing but pain and regret and failure. No one was there to stop him from abusing himself—no one was there to even try and guilt him into stopping. Cordelia was gone. Angel might as well be. Doyle was…

Hurting. Inside and out. His hangover was so bad, he'd be far better off curled in a ball rather than standing upright. Not to mention, his equilibrium was seriously screwed. He'd be lucky if he could remain at the top of the basement steps, rather than tumbling down them and landing at Angel's feet.

Alright, so there was one person to guilt Doyle into sobering up—that would be Doyle himself. Usually, he ignored that inner voice. He'd excelled at ignoring that voice back when his marriage to Harriet had fallen apart. He'd kept ignoring it right until he'd met Angel. And if he was being really honest, he was still pretty good at ignoring it for quite a while after that. Then, the inner voice got louder and more persistent until it was eventually joined by an outer voice, too.

Cordelia. He'd wanted her from the moment he'd laid eyes on her. It wasn't _just_ because of her that he'd gotten himself together, but it was _definitely_ because of her.

It was because of the job, too. The big cosmic-duty, weight-of-the-world, save-the-day job that came pre-packaged with the best friend he'd ever had. Doyle wanted the job—and the friend. He wanted to do the job well. Because it made him feel important. It made him feel like he mattered. It made him the good man he always wanted to be, instead of the screwed up half-demon he'd let himself become. The job was the thing that had truly saved him.

And Cordelia. _Definitely_ Cordelia.

He'd lost her, but he still had the job. That should be enough, right?

He needed it to be enough. He didn't have any other choice in the matter.

As Doyle watched Angel continue battering the bean-filled plastic lump hanging from the ceiling, he had to laugh mirthlessly to himself. Angel's rage was the equivalent to Doyle's bender. A showcase of just how different they were. Aside from the brooding gene, which they seemed to share, they dealt with pain and rage in entirely opposite ways. Angel exploded, aiming to destroy others; Doyle imploded, aiming to destroy himself. It would be so easy, to check out. Let Angel explode, while Doyle drank himself to death slowly in a hotel room that would never feel like home.

But, Doyle wasn't going to do that. He wasn't going to let that happen. He didn't have the luxury of letting that happen. Not this time. He could pretend to be apathetic, but that would never be true. If anything, he cared now more than ever. That's what the inner voice told him—and that's why he listened.

The job was all he had left. It had to be enough. It had to be everything, because it _was_ everything.

Which is why he couldn't screw it up, assuming he hadn't already done so.

One bender, fine, Doyle had earned that on account of having had his heart broken. But, he couldn't let that broken heart detract him from the big picture. After all, he could've ended up with a whole lot worse than a broken heart. This loss, while devastating, was still the better option. And he couldn't let it be in vain. He had to find the strength inside himself to fight instead of wallow. It was the only way he'd be able to help Angel, and it was the only way Doyle would be able to help himself.

If he could succeed, then it would all be worth it… for Angel, in the very least.

"You've been living here." Angel had stopped punching the bag, and was wiping his face on a towel in the corner. He spoke to Doyle abruptly, without bothering to look at him. Tossing the towel back down, he began removing the black boxing tape from his knuckles.

"Don't know if ya could call it that exactly." Doyle replied, not moving any further down the steps.

Angel focused on the tape, unwinding, unwinding and then yanking it off and tossing it in the trash. "I can smell the booze from here. Surprised you can walk."

"Yeah, well, since we're not really taking any cases at the moment, I figured this is a good way to earn a bit of pocket change—empty some bottles and take 'em in for a deposit." Doyle cracked, grabbing hold of the banister and gingerly descending the staircase into Angel's training space.

Finally removing the last bit of support tape and tossing it aside, Angel raised his head to look directly at Doyle. It wasn't a friendly look. "What happened? Cordelia kick you out?"

"As a matter of fact… yeah, she did." Doyle confirmed as he made it successfully to the bottom of the stairs without falling and then took a break, leaning his back against the railing. There was a very good chance he'd tip over otherwise. "Seems that getting fired can really upset a person. 'Cause 'em to lash out at other people who weren't fired. Speaking of which, don't y'think you were a wee bit harsh there? If ya wanted the others out of the way, there are nicer ways of going about it. Paid vacation, for one."

Angel only grunted in reply, grabbing his shirt off a nearby hook and throwing it on over his head. "You can still work here, Doyle, but that doesn't mean we'll be having any heart to hearts. Keep your unwanted advice to yourself."

"Ah… but what's my job description, if not giving unwanted advice?" Doyle rebutted.

"I can fire you, too." Angel said flatly. "Or maybe you should do yourself a favor and quit. Go—back to Cordelia. Before it's too late."

Doyle narrowed his eyes, observing Angel with as much focus as possible within the cloud of his alcohol-withdrawal. "Be careful, Angel, man. It almost seems like ya give a damn."

A snort was the only reply he got that time, as Angel faced him without actually looking him in the eye.

"It's already too late." Doyle continued, trying to detach himself from his words, because he didn't really want it to be too late. He still hoped that one day he'd be able to make things right with her, but that didn't mean he had changed his mind about working for Angel. "I made my choice. You're stuck with me, bud."

Angel lifted his discarded towel and slung it over his shoulder. "Just don't forget who's in charge here. You work for me. What I say goes. And I say, we're bringing down Wolfram & Hart. Right after I kill Darla and Dru."

Doyle raised his brows with mild amusement. "That's the whole plan, then? Kill the vampires, destroy the lawyers."

"That's the whole plan." Angel snapped back, stepping around Doyle and stomping up the stairs without another word.

"That's a terrible plan." Doyle muttered to himself, long after Angel was out of earshot.

* * *

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._

It was weird to knock on Cordelia's front door. Doyle couldn't remember the last time he'd actually done so. Even before he had a key, he had been accustomed to Dennis opening the door automatically. The fact that he wasn't opening it now meant that he'd been instructed not to. And while technically, Doyle still didn't have to knock because he had a key in his pocket, it seemed inappropriate to use that key under the circumstances.

He'd called her many times and gotten no answer. Rather than leaving yet another unanswered message on her machine, he opted to swing by and take his chances with knocking. His excuse—should he need an excuse—was that he came to pick up his boxes; the truth was he just wanted to see her. Talk to her. Maybe, if he was feeling brave, he'd even give her the Christmas present he had bought her ages ago. That was, if she didn't bite his head off first, which was a very distinct possibility.

The lack of response was a bad sign. Not only was she not answering the door, she wasn't even coming near the door. That led him to believe, she probably wasn't home. After all, she wasn't psychic or half demon. Cordelia would need to actually approach the door and look through the peephole in order to know it was Doyle standing on the other side. Doyle, on the other hand, merely had to sniff the air and listen through the thick door to sense that Cordelia wasn't anywhere nearby. Clover wasn't there either, for that matter.

That settled it. He began digging in his pocket for the key, deciding that there was no harm in opening the door if she wasn't there. Demon senses did occasionally come in handy, as much as he loathed them. As soon as he swung the door open, he was met with a pile of boxes—his boxes, all pushed right up to the front of the room, waiting for him.

He closed the door behind him and stepped forward to further assess the situation. He swallowed hard as he noted that there was an additional garbage bag set behind the boxes, probably full of the clothes and other personal items he'd had elsewhere in her apartment. He imagined Cordelia gathering everything up in a whirlwind of fury and shoving it all in that bag, intent on throwing it straight in the trash. It showed restraint on her part that she hadn't.

Nudging open the bag, he took a quick peek inside. At the very top, sat his toothbrush.

Ouch.

He let the bag fall closed once again and moved deeper into the apartment, seeing the blinking light on her answering machine that signaled multiple new messages. There were more than just the ones he'd left. Clearly, she hadn't been there in days, probably fleeing to Sunnydale as fast as she could pack. Which meant she really didn't want to see Doyle—he knew going to visit her mom was a very last resort for her.

A small piece of paper floated across the room toward him and hovered in the air a foot in front of him. "Thanks, Dennis." Doyle spoke to the ghost as he plucked the note out of the air and read the curvy words that had been inked on its surface.

 _Leave the key on the counter._

Doyle felt the stabbing pains of rejection all over again. Somehow, this was even worse than when she'd broke up with him in the first place. At least, then she'd been present and hemorrhaging emotions—he'd known it wasn't easy for her to walk away. It had given him a shred of hope that maybe all they needed was some time for things to settle. A few days away from each other might soften her up—she might miss him as much as he was missing her. But even if she was missing him, he'd never know, because she'd taken herself—and whatever emotions she was feeling—out of the equation. Now all he was left with was a pile of boxes pushed conveniently up to the front door and a curtly written note delivered by a ghost.

"Six words never hurt so much." Doyle found himself admitting to the phantom who remained unseen, but ever-present. "I didn't want it to be this way, man. Y'know, I'm still crazy 'bout the girl."

The response he got was a tiny Christmas Tree in the corner suddenly lighting up. He wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean exactly, but he supposed Dennis had a rather limited vocabulary. Still, Doyle walked closer to the tree and admired the way the twinkling lights bounced off the metallic balls and tinsel that also hung from the short branches. It might have been small, but it was a lovely tree. He wasn't even sure when she'd put it up—too consumed was he in his own issues of the demon variety, and Angel's issues of the Darla variety. He swallowed hard as he stared at the tree, a tsunami of regret rising in his chest.

God, she had been right, hadn't she? This was his fault. She hadn't walked away; he had pushed her. Maybe he hadn't pushed as overtly as he'd once pushed Harriet, but he'd still done it. Ever since the night at the museum. Instead of including her in his inner struggle, he'd built himself a wall of distraction. He'd avoided her, plain and simple. And worse yet, he'd made it all about _Angel_. Angel needed him. It was his job. He'd even convinced himself it was true. But, it _was_ an excuse. He had kept Cordelia at arm's length and placed Angel in between them, causing the rift in their previously rock solid relationship. Angel firing her had merely been the final straw – the one that broke the proverbial camel's back.

And her heart. Both their hearts. _Broken_.

Doyle felt a sudden tug against his jacket pocket, which took him by surprise. He stared into the empty air around him with a puzzled expression as he shoved his hand into the pocket that Dennis seemed so interested in. His hand closed around a small box, tied with a bow. His Christmas gift for Cordelia.

In an uncharacteristic move, Doyle had bought this particular gift over the summer, having spied it in a shop window, and knowing instantly that it was perfect for her. He'd been careful, first hiding it at his old apartment, and then moving it to the hotel, keeping it far away from her apartment where she'd easily find it. He'd only imagined giving it to her about a hundred times or so—seeing her eyes light up as she opened the box. Now it seemed rather presumptuous of him to have bought her a Christmas gift, but at the time, he hadn't been able to imagine a moment—much less a holiday—without her. "Y'think I should leave it for her?" Doyle asked with surprise. "It'd probably end up in the trash, yeah?"

This time Dennis pulled the small package out of Doyle's pocket himself and placed it beneath the tree, leaving no question as to what he was suggesting. Doyle stared at the box in its rightful place, under her tree. He hadn't put a tag on it, but if she ever opened it, she'd know it was from him. So, he left it there and moved back toward the pile of boxes.

Good thing he'd borrowed Angel's car… alright, _borrowing_ would've implied that he'd asked, which he hadn't. He just hoped he could get it back to the hotel before Angel noticed it was missing. In any case, Doyle wouldn't have a problem removing all the boxes and the garbage bag by himself. It was times like these that his modest living was probably for the best. Way less strain on his back.

His heart on the other hand—it was a small miracle it was still beating as he placed his key on the counter, just as her note instructed. He took one long last look at the place. It hadn't "officially" been his place of residence for nearly long enough, but unofficially, it had almost always felt like home. And like her, he would miss it every single day he spent away.

He'd miss Clover, too. The little furball had really grown on him. He wished he could say goodbye.

After he'd lifted the final box into his arms, he stood at the door for an extra beat. "Take care of 'er, man." He said to her phantom roommate, before stepping out the front door one last time and closing it behind him.


	28. Redefinition, Pt 2

**"Redefinition," Part II**

Doyle took another long sip straight from the bottle.

Well, here he was again. But, just to clarify, this was not a bender. _This_ was just what a man does when it's Christmas Eve and he has nowhere else to be, and no one else to be with. It wasn't the first one he'd spent this way, but he'd never expected to be back here.

He reached over to the ashtray on the bedside table and lifted the smoldering cigarette that sat there, bringing it back up to his lips and inhaling deeply. Room 505 of the Hyperion now stunk of smoke and booze and was littered with the boxes that Doyle had dumped haphazardly around the room. It wasn't Christmas in this place. It was just Sunday. A lousy Sunday, at that.

The sad thing was, Doyle had actually made an attempt _not_ to end up drinking alone in his room. He had searched for Angel, hoping to at least brood in the dark with another not-entirely-dead individual. But the vampire was nowhere to be found. Probably out trying to kill the future mother of his child, and the psycho who'd made her a vampire again. Either that, or he was back to waving a bright red cape in front of the bull that was Wolfram  & Hart.

Doyle had given up hope that Cordelia would ever call him back. Not that it had stopped him from leaving her one more message on her cell phone. One more message that simply said Merry Christmas. Although, that didn't come close to covering all the things he'd actually wanted to say to her. He'd made that call before he was too drunk to control his tongue and he would spend the rest of the night convincing himself not to redial her number. Because it wouldn't make anything better. She still wouldn't answer. She still wouldn't call him back. His Christmas would be no more merrier than it currently was.

Which was to say, very un-merry.

Another drag of the cigarette and then back in the ashtray it went. Another sip from the bottle and that got plopped down beside the ashtray. Then he was reaching for the phone and dialing a set of familiar numbers and listening to the numerous rings on the other end, assuming he'd get another pre-recorded greeting from someone who had better things to do on Christmas Eve than answer his phone calls.

"Hello?"

The female voice that had answered the phone took him by surprise, so sure was he that no living, breathing human would be on the other end.

"Hey, ah… it's me." He said into the receiver, clearing his throat so he wouldn't sound like such a pathetic mess.

"Francis?" She asked, the surprise in her voice coming through loud and clear. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, Harry. Hope I'm not disturbin' ya." He slurred his words slightly, dropping his head into his hand as he used his other one to hold the receiver up to his ear. He was hunched over on the edge of his bed—thankful his ex-wife couldn't see the miserable wreck he was on the other end of the phone line. "I know it's late."

There was an abnormally long pause and a bit of audible shuffling on the other end. He got the distinct impression that Harriet had covered the receiver and was whispering to someone in the background. She probably had company—of course, she did. It was Christmas Eve.

He shouldn't have called her. Why did he call her?

"No, it's okay." Harriet's voice came back on the line. "You just..." There was another longer-than-normal pause and then a familiar tinge of disapproval. "You sound drunk."

This had been a bad idea. But, hanging up on her now was out of the question. Once again he was thankful she couldn't see through the phone line. He forced out a chuckle, but it sounded false even to his own ears. "Ah… y'know me. I may have hit the ol' eggnog a little too hard tonight."

"Mmmhmm." She answered skeptically. "I hope that means you and Cordelia are having a nice Christmas Eve."

Doyle felt his heart creep into his throat at the mention of Cordelia's name. The knot in his chest twisting all the tighter. It took him an extra beat to recover and when he did he still felt like he was drowning. "Yeah. It's been real nice." He choked out and then found himself rushing through his next thought trying to get to the end of the stilted conversation. "I should get back to it. I just… ah… wanted to wish ya a Merry Christmas. That's all."

"Merry Christmas to you, too." Harriet replied, and he could hear the uneasy smile in her voice. "And to Cordelia as well." Doyle tried to force himself to say goodbye, or anything at all, but Harriet's concerned voice was as good a connection as he was going to get tonight, and he found himself not all that eager to let it go. "Francis, is everything okay?"

"Yeah." He said unconvincingly. "I just need to sleep it off. Ya have yourself a nice night now, Harry."

He heard the doubts in her mind that she didn't verbalize. "Okay." She said instead. "Goodnight."

"G'night." He replied, quickly disconnecting the line and placing the phone back on the receiver. His head fell back into both his hands as soon as the connection was gone, and somehow he felt even lonelier now than he had before.

* * *

It was cold in the apartment. Way too cold. That's what happened when Dennis was left to his own devices without any warm bodies to consider—ghosts really liked the cold, apparently.

Cordelia adjusted the thermostat but opted to leave her coat and scarf on until the room had a chance to warm up. She then carefully placed Clover's carrier on the ground and opened the gate, so the tiny feline could happily dart into the freedom of the living room.

Looking around the empty apartment, Cordelia doubted it would feel warmer anytime soon. How could it when all the warmth had been sucked right out of the place?

Doyle's boxes were gone, and his key was on the counter, which meant he had come and now he was gone. For real. For good.

She ached. All over.

Which had made dealing with her mother for the past ten days a nearly unbearable task. Then again, she had chosen to do that rather than risk seeing Doyle when he inevitably came knocking. Instead, she willingly punished herself with her mother's thinly veiled criticisms about her unflattering haircut and her apparently lapsing moisturizing habits. She listened to all the barbs about her so-obviously-failing career as an actress, which was only made worse by the fact that she'd recently lost her "back-up job." When her mom passed out drunk each evening, was when the trip back to Sunnydale had been the most pleasant.

Well, it could have been worse. At least she didn't run into Xander or any other members of the Scooby gang. She didn't have the energy or the emotional fortitude for a reunion.

Moving to the answering machine, Cordelia saw the number of unheard messages and idly wondered how many of them would be from him. The messages he'd left on her cell phone had long since been deleted, and these would follow suit once she decided to press play, which she wasn't eager to do.

She didn't want to hear his voice. It only made her ache more.

As the air slowly rose above subzero, she finally removed her scarf and jacket, tossing them on a chair. And then she rolled her luggage into the bedroom, where she'd eventually get to unpacking it. The phone began to ring as she made her way back to the living room… and she froze in place.

 _Riiiiiing._ She couldn't pick it up. _Riiiiiing._ It was probably him. _Riiiiiing._ Even if it wasn't. _Riiiiiing._ She couldn't... _Click. Beeeeeeep._

"Hi, Cordelia, it's Harriet. I've been trying to reach Francis and he's not calling me back. I'm hoping you can—"

"Harry?" Cordelia had picked up the phone as soon as she heard the familiar female voice coming from the answering machine, laced with an urgency that couldn't be ignored. Her chest was tight as an instinctive surge of worry shot through her, but she tried her best to keep her voice light and unaffected. "Hi. Is there… um, is something wrong?"

"Cordelia. Hi, I'm so sorry to bother you like this." Harry answered from the other end of the line, as Cordelia pressed the button to stop the answering machine from recording. "I've been trying Francis' cell phone for a few days. I have to assume he broke it again. Am I right?" The other woman laughed sardonically as she spoke of Doyle's consistent bad luck with cellular technology.

"Probably." Cordelia heard her own voice respond, although she wasn't entirely sure where it came from. "But, he's not… _ahem._ He's not here."

"Oh, well..." The other woman paused, clearly considering her next words carefully. "That's okay. The truth is, Cordelia, I've only been trying to reach him because I've been worried. I'm sure you know he called me on Christmas Eve and he just sounded… not like himself. Or actually—I take that back. He sounded a little _too_ _much_ like himself. Hence, the worrying on my part… Anyway, I know I'm probably imagining things—but since he won't answer his damn cell phone—just tell me. Is he doing okay?"

Cordelia held the phone dumbly up to her ear, silently wishing she hadn't picked it up, but it had been reflex more than anything. Reflex was exactly why she'd made herself so scarce in the first place. Or else, she'd probably end up forgiving him. "I wouldn't know." She replied coolly, trying to detach herself from Harriet's words. Not allowing them to sink in. Not allowing herself to worry. "We broke up."

"Oh." The staccato reply from the other end of the line, revealed the woman's surprise. Her next words were laced with sympathy. "He didn't tell me. I'm very sorry to hear that."

"Yeah… it happens. In any case, I haven't spoken to him." Cordelia went on, trying to make her voice sound breezy, although she felt anything but. "He's living at the Hyperion Hotel now. Same number as Angel Investigations; you should try him there."

Dennis clicked on the Christmas Tree lights in the living room, drawing Cordelia's eyes in that direction as she continued to listen to Harriet's sympathies through the phone line. "What about you?" The other woman had asked. "Are you okay? I mean, if you want to talk about anything—"

"I broke up with him. So I'm…" Cordelia's voice caught in her throat as she noticed the small, wrapped package that sat beneath her tree, with a curly little bow placed on top. "Fine."

She hesitated for a moment, afraid to move any closer to the foreign object he had left in her home.

"I guess I should let you go then." Harriet's regretful voice reverberated from the plastic receiver in Cordelia's hand, but she no longer paid it much attention. "Take care of yourself, Cordelia."

"You, too." Cordelia replied absently, clicking off the handset and tossing it aside distractedly. Her eyes were entirely focused on the small gift beneath her tree, and she felt her stomach flip over as she reached out and touched it.

It was real. Of course, it was real. Cordelia might be a lot of things, but delusional wasn't one of them.

She had broken up with him, kicked him out of her apartment, dodged his phone calls, and he… he had left her a Christmas present.

That agonizing feeling she got in her chest whenever she thought about him became so much worse. Half of her wanted to toss the object in the garbage along with the tiny Christmas tree; the other half of her desperately wanted to open it—to see just what kind of gift he'd chosen and still saw fit to give her. As she stared at the tiny box, knowing that it had to be a piece of jewelry, she became unreasonably terrified that it would be a Claddagh ring, like the one he wore. She knew the Claddagh wasn't a purely romantic gift; it could represent friendship. But that made her all the more averse to the idea—she had no interest in receiving a gift like _that_ in friendship. Particularly when the giver of said gift was anything but a friend. Then there was the other part of it. The part where she had secretly fantasized about him getting her a ring like that under the most romantic of circumstances, to solidify their commitment to each other. To make it permanent.

A wave of nausea passed over her as she fought those fantasies away. They were no longer relevant, and if anyone ever questioned her, she'd most certainly deny they ever existed. Furthermore, if Doyle had been foolish enough to get her a Claddagh ring for Christmas, and then give it to her under these circumstances, then she'd be sure to melt it down into a hunk of metal before throwing it back in his face.

He couldn't be that big a fool. Could he?

Her hands shook as she yanked the curly ribbon off the outside of the box and ripped the small swatch of paper away. Then she opened the lid and her breath caught in her throat once again as she stared at the dainty piece of jewelry that was nestled within a cloud of cotton inside the box. The tears that came to her eyes blurred her vision rapidly, making it hard to see the object in the box. She carefully lifted the thin chain with her index finger and thumb, holding the necklace up to the light to admire it in full.

It was a delicate glass heart with a tiny four-leaf clover pressed into the center. It was beautiful. And had it come from Doyle, her boyfriend, rather than Doyle, her _ex-boyfriend_ , it would've been the perfect Christmas present. She blinked away some of the tears and took a closer look. Yes, it was a real four-leaf clover. A symbol of good luck pressed into the precious heart, dangling on a silver chain. It was his heart. That must have been what he was thinking when he chose this particular gift.

It wasn't nearly as devastating as the Claddagh would've been, but it was still a terribly inappropriate gift. If Doyle had been there, she would have been obligated to refuse it. But, he wasn't there. No one but Dennis would ever have to know what she chose to do with it...

She had started weeping before she was fully aware that she was doing it, and she kept the small glass heart squeezed tightly in her palm as she threw herself down on the couch and let all the tears come flowing out. Clover had leapt up onto her lap, rubbing her small furry head against Cordelia in the only offering of comfort she could provide. And Dennis pulled a warm, fleecy blanket around her shoulders—it wasn't exactly a hug, but it was as close as she was going to get from her non-corporeal roommate. A moment later, a box of tissues floated to the coffee table and a lone tissue was plucked from the top.

Cordelia caught the tissue in mid-air and blew her nose, sniffling softly. The big cry had felt good, actually. She'd probably needed it, and it helped to have such compassionate non-human companions.

"Thanks, guys." She whispered out loud as she pet the small furry head on her lap, and flashed a weak smile to the empty space in front of her. She yanked another tissue from the box before her and dabbed at her wet eyes.

It was hard to be back in the apartment alone. It was hard to grip a thoughtful and heartfelt gift from Doyle in the palm of her hand. And it was hard to face the New Year with such loss at her heels, but when the going got tough—Cordelia Chase got tougher!

The New Year was going to be a big one for her. She was going to get back out there in the world—the normal world, void of all vampire bosses and half demon exes—and she was going to really do something with herself. Acting—there would definitely be lots of acting. Acting like she wasn't dying inside, for one. And shopping—well, that would have to wait until after she got some acting jobs, since she had no funds to speak of, at the moment. And dating—right, dating. That would have to wait a while. She needed time to rebuild her broken armor before she could risk throwing herself back into the deep end of the dating pool. But, she'd get there. Eventually.

Why? Because she was Queen C. Raised on the streets of the Hellmouth, dumpee of way richer guys than one, Allen Francis Doyle. She was ready to take Los Angeles by storm!

Right after, she put on her comfiest pajamas and chowed down on an entire tub of low-fat froyo while watching _When Harry Met Sally…_ for the nine-hundredth time and wishing that everything had turned out so very differently.


	29. Redefinition, Pt 3

**"Redefinition," Part III**

 _"_ _You know that we are living in a material world and I am a material girl."_

Cordelia smiled brightly into the blinding lights at Caritas as she was greeted with scattered applause. She placed the microphone back into its clip on the mic stand and gave a little bow before exiting stage left, and making her way down the small staircase back into the crowd.

It was her friend Kelly's fault that Cordelia had ended up at a demon karaoke bar instead of a chic West Hollywood nightclub for girl's night out. They had plans for the first time in _forever_ , and what did Kelly do? Completely bailed in order to spend the night with her boyfriend. Gag. To make matters worse, Cordelia had to remind herself that Kelly's boyfriend was a guy from Cordelia's old acting class, and Cordelia herself had been the one to set them up nearly a year ago. Apparently her skills in the boyfriend-finding department worked much better for others than they did for her.

Rather than spending another depressing night in her apartment all alone, lamenting her failed attempts to rekindle her acting career—not to mention, her social life—Cordelia had decided to take matters into her own hands.

Guidance. That's what she needed. And money. But, mostly guidance. Which is why Caritas had seemed like the right place to go. So, she'd come, she'd sung and now it was time to find that flashy green guy and make him tell her all about her bright, shiny, non-demony future. Her eyes darted left and right as she looked for—

"Wesley?" She came up short as she nearly ran directly into the tall Englishman. "What are you—oh, God, you just watched me sing, didn't you?"

"Well, I…" He cleared his throat uncomfortably; looking more than a little embarrassed to have been discovered there. "What a performance it was! Really. Much more impressive than your Whitney Houston rendition."

"Uh huh." Cordelia noted, with a quirk of her brow. "You came to sing, too, didn't you?"

Wesley's eyes averted to the stage as he gave a little shrug. "It seemed like the thing to do. But, I must say, I'm rather surprised to see _you_ here. I thought you already knew your destiny."

Cordelia slumped onto the closest barstool, wearing a deep pout. "Rub it in, why don't you?" She groaned, leaning her head against her hand and hoping to catch the eye of the bartender. "I was supposed to have fame, fortune, red carpets galore. In reality, I can't even get one lousy audition. I've been trying for weeks, and there's just _nothing_. Worse than nothing—it had been so long since I called my agent, he didn't even know I was still a client!"

Taking the stool beside Cordelia, Wesley made a more overt signal in the bartender's direction, finally getting him to nod in their direction. Her former co-worker then folded his hands together, and tilted his head toward her with concern. "Are you making rent?"

"For now." Cordelia grumped in reply. "I have enough saved to get by for a month or two. But, I can forget being able to fix my hair any time this century! As much as it pains me, I might be forced into waitressing to make ends meet. Ugh, how embarrassing would that be? _Me_ , as a waitress."

"Not nearly as embarrassing as me being in a karaoke bar." A voice said from behind them. Both Cordelia and Wesley turned toward the source of the voice and found Gunn standing behind them with his arms crossed across his chest and a frown firmly in place. "Seriously, I used to be cool before I met y'all."

"You're still mostly cool." Cordelia offered, with a shrug before turning back to the bar and throwing her hands in the air with frustration. "What does it take to get a drink around here?!"

The Host appeared beside Cordelia at that moment, placing a hand on her shoulder and barking out drink orders to the bartender, who naturally, paid rapt attention to his boss. "A bloodless Bloody Mary for the gentleman, shot of tequila for the big guy there and a Shirley Temple for the lady."

"What?!" Cordelia squawked in dismay. "But there's no alcohol in a Shirley Temple."

"That's right, cupcake." The Host agreed, giving her shoulder a friendly pat. "You'll thank me for that later."

"I'm not thanking you for it right now." She whined, placing her arms down on the top of the bar and dropping her head onto them in frustration. The rest of her complaints came out mumbled into her shirtsleeves. "No job; no money; no stupid, Irish half-demon boyfriend! If anyone needs tequila it's me." She lifted her head one last time, scowling at the Host. "Since when does this place have a drinking age anyway?"

"Since now." The Host said with a wink. "Trust me, next time you come in here, you won't even want a drink."

The bartender came back over, placing a large blood-red drink in front of Wesley, a shot of liquid gold in front of Gunn, and a bubbly pink drink with a cherry in front of Cordelia. She reluctantly picked up her Shirley Temple and wrinkled her nose at the sugar-laden beverage. "I hope that means you saw something good in my future." She said to the Host, placing the unappealing glass back down without taking a sip.

"Funny thing, what I saw is really more of a message. From your former employers." The Host explained, leaning an elbow against the bar as he addressed not only Cordelia, but her two companions as well.

"Angel and Doyle were here?" Wesley asked, sitting up straighter on his stool and blinking rapidly as he absorbed the Host's words. "They left us a message?"

"I know Angel's real old and all, but can't he use the phone like a normal person." Gunn remarked, knocking back the shot of tequila and slamming the empty glass down on the bar.

"No. Uh uh. Not gonna happen." Cordelia interrupted, wagging a warning finger at the Host. "You can tell Angel, if he wants to talk to us, he's going to have to do it himself. No messengers. Especially not green ones."

The Host gave her a sympathetic smile, clearly picking up on her subtext, which in all fairness, wasn't all that subtle. But, why be subtle with a psychic, right?

"The message isn't from Angel… or Doyle." The Host clarified, with an easy smile, pointing up toward the ceiling. "It's from the big guys—or girls—or non-gender-specific-entities."

"The Powers That Be." Wesley noted. "They wish to give _us_ a message?"

The Host snapped his fingers for the bartender once more, pointing to his empty hand as if to say that was a problem. He then calmly turned back to the three curious sets of eyes before him. "Why so surprised? They've been sending you messages for a while now. Albeit, they usually get delivered with an Irish accent."

"Those messages are for Angel." Cordelia blurted, not even bothering to hide the bitterness in her voice. "He's the one with the big important destiny. We were just office furniture, apparently."

"Yeah, well, maybe Angel ain't listening." Gunn pointed out. "And we're all they got."

"I think you need to consider the other possibility—that the messages were never _just_ for Angel." The Host answered with a knowing smile. "Which would explain why I'm supposed to tell you about the girl screaming for her life in an alley about five blocks east of here. Looks like a pretty nasty demon is about to get his talons in her. And if you don't hurry, well… chalk it up as a loss for Angel Investigations."

"We're not Angel Investigations anymore!" Cordelia snapped back as she hopped of her barstool. "But that doesn't mean we're gonna let some innocent girl die. We should probably go save her, right?"

Wesley pushed away his Bloody Mary and stood as well, squaring his shoulders. "I'd say it's our duty to save her."

Gunn merely raised his eyebrows with veiled interest. "It's not like I've got a whole lot else going on. And I'd much rather fight than sing."

The Host grinned at the three of them as he lifted his newly filled glass in a one-sided cheers. "The drinks are on me, you big heroes. Now go on out there and do what you were destined to do."

* * *

Doyle sprinted down the sidewalk, more than a little out of breath. He knew he was relatively close to where he needed to be, he just needed a little sign. Just a little something that would get him close enough to catch the scent of the demon in the air.

Maybe he could have morphed into his demon form and given his demon senses a significant boost, but that would mean risking the precarious control he had managed to regain. Not a good idea. With everything else he'd lost recently, he needed his fragile hold on humanity more than ever.

Needless to say, if he was going to save this girl in the alley, he was going to need a little something more to guide his way.

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!"

A blood-curdling scream. Yup, that should do nicely.

Doyle went barreling down the next long alleyway, heading in the general direction the scream had emanated from. And that's when he caught the scent. Not the demon—although he could sense that, too—the scent he'd picked up was one he knew a little more intimately. _A lot_ more intimately.

He came up short, searching desperately in the darkness, and found a secondary alley behind a large, abandoned building. That's where she was…

His heart was pounding hard in his chest as he raced toward her in the dark. She wasn't the girl he saw in his vision, but that didn't change the fact that she was there and she was close. And then he saw her. She wasn't alone. With her were also Wesley and Gunn. All three of them were standing under the dim umbrella of light from an emergency floodlight. They all looked up as they heard Doyle approach; none of them bearing any weapons, which seemed painfully unwise considering what they were about to face.

Wesley was visibly relieved, taking a deep breath as he identified the familiar half-demon heading toward them. "Oh, Doyle. Dear Lord. You gave us quite a fright."

"Yeah, well, if I gave ya a fright, I'd hate to think what the other demon in this alley would give ya." Doyle wisecracked, his eyes immediately skimmed to the slender, dark-haired individual standing behind the lanky Brit; she was frozen in place, her eyes wide and unreadable. Doyle's pulse quickened at the sight of her—it felt like it had been forever. She seemed smaller, somehow. Or, maybe it was just because she stood in between two much taller, bulkier people.

"Can't help but notice there ain't no vampires in this alley." Gunn said condemningly. "Would be real nice to have a set of fangs on our side right about now."

"What are you doing here?" Wesley wondered, as Doyle continued his approach and stopped just on the opposite edge of their circle of light. He tried to keep from gaping at Cordelia, but it was hard. She solved the problem by hardening her gaze into something decidedly more guarded, and then she lowered her eyes to the ground beneath their feet.

Doyle shifted his weight and turned his attention to the man directly addressing him. "I think the better question is what are _you_ all doing here?!" He retorted with an air of incredulity. "Last time I checked, I was the only one of us with the very special migraines, yeah?"

"Turns out there's another green dude with a direct line to the string-pullers." Gunn answered. "And he thought this was something we oughtta know about."

"The Host of Caritas sent ya here?!" Doyle said in wonderment. "Didn't think he went in for that kinda thing. Which of ya sang for him exactly?"

"That's not important." Cordelia finally spoke up, the tone of her voice left no room for argument. She was all business, all attitude. There wasn't a drop of kindness in her face as she addressed Doyle, without giving him proper eye contact. "He sent us here for a reason—there's a girl who's gonna die if we don't stop that big, slimy creature who just dragged her through this alley. Now, if you wanna be helpful, bring out the spikes, take a big whiff and tell us where the demon went. Because none of us have any way of tracking it from here."

"Please?" Wesley added lamely, perhaps trying to break some of the thickly formed ice that had just frozen the alleyway.

Doyle gestured to the wall beside them. "It went up the drainpipe."

"But, how could you…?" Wesley stared at Doyle in quiet awe and then moved closer to the drainpipe in question to see if there was any evidence of the demon he had missed initially. He could look all night if he wanted to, he wasn't going to see the minute traces of the girl's blood or the demon's slime that Doyle could easily smell. He could, however, look up and see the broken window above their heads. "You're saying he took her in there?"

"Guess he likes to dine in private." Doyle said facetiously, earning a disapproving frown from Cordelia for his inappropriate joke. Well, that was something. She'd actually looked at him, even if it was just to silently scold him. With a heavy sigh, he turned to Wesley. "Ya want me to give ya a boost?"

"Pardon?" Wesley said, blinking rapidly at Doyle. "I hardly think I should be the first—"

Gunn shook his head impatiently, and stepped in front of Wesley, holding out his hand toward Doyle. "Axe."

Doyle pulled the modest-sized axe out of his belt and handed it over to Gunn. "A please wouldn't kill ya, bud." He complained, before kneeling so that Gunn could use him as a step up to the window. He grunted as the larger man's weight bore into his shoulder muscles. "Ya may also wanna lay off the donuts."

Once Gunn had made it to the window, he was able to lean back out and reach down to help the others, forming a human chain. Doyle was next up, with Cordelia right behind him. As Gunn reached down to help Wesley through the window, Doyle found himself standing beside his rather standoffish ex-girlfriend. She chose to look everywhere in the room other than at Doyle.

He shuffled his feet uncomfortably, finding it hard to be this close to her without saying _something_. "Hey, Cordy, I get why ya ignored all my messages, but I was hoping—"

She began walking away from him before he could even get the entire sentence out, leaving him standing with his mouth hanging open. The silent answer was loud and clear. There wouldn't be any talking tonight, aside from the few words she'd already spit at him down in the alley. He imagined she hadn't even wanted to say that much, but she'd chosen to prioritize saving the girl's life over making Doyle suffer. Better yet, she was multitasking.

By now Wesley had made it successfully through the window and was brushing himself off. "Alright, we should split up. Look for any sign of the girl… or the demon."

"There!" Cordelia's voice called to them from where she wandered to the center of the room. She was pointing to a heap in the far corner, which did indeed, bear a passing resemblance to the terrified young woman Doyle had seen in his vision. "Aaaaaaahhhhh!"

Cordelia's scream almost seemed to come _before_ the demon landed on top of her, which was, of course, not what had happened. But, the demon had dropped very suddenly from the beams overhead and knocked her to the ground. Doyle's feet began racing toward her before his brain had much time to process a strategy, and he sensed Gunn was at his side and Wesley at his back, with much the same non-strategy. Well, at least Gunn had the axe, which Doyle had so generously handed over. _Why had he handed over his axe again?_

Gunn reached the spiny demon first, taking a wild swing with the axe, which successfully knocked it off of Cordelia. The beast wasn't too pleased with the interruption, nor was it too injured by the mediocre weapon. Throwing a wild punch, the demon knocked Gunn to the ground. But, Cordelia had been able to scramble away in the meantime; scooting across the floor, she continued her mad dash all the way to the crumpled girl in the corner. Her priority, as always, was the victim—assuring the girl was alive and that she would stay that way.

Doyle, on the other hand, quickly found himself pinned underneath the large demon with a set of very sharp spines cutting into his flesh. Not only did it hurt like hell, but it also cut off his air supply. He choked and wheezed as he tried his damnedest to gain some leverage and knock the thing off himself. It wasn't something he was going to be able to do with merely his human strength—but he wasn't going to morph willingly. So, death seemed as good an option as any…

A whack to the demon's skull, courtesy of Wesley brandishing a two-by-four, caused the demon to finally roll off of Doyle's chest, allowing him to suck oxygen back into his lungs in large gulps. He shakily tried to pull himself to his feet, even as he watched the large, spiny creature ram Wesley straight into the wall, sinking his teeth deep into the other man's shoulder. Wesley howled with pain as a deep red bloodstain appeared on his shoulder.

Gunn was moving swiftly across the room to Wesley's aid, his jaw swollen from the nasty hit he'd taken. He was no longer in possession of the axe, which had been flung somewhere out of range. Instead, he picked up a rotting wooden chair that sat nearby; lifting it over his head, he slammed it down on the demon's back. The demon removed it's teeth from Wesley's shoulder and grabbed for Gunn instead, who deftly moved out of its reach.

Meanwhile Doyle, successfully back on his feet, had spotted the axe and forced himself to move toward it. He lifted the weapon off the ground and rushed back toward the demon who was lumbering toward a now weaponless Gunn—the last bits of rotting wood having proved futile against the creature's thick hide. Doyle raised the axe over his head as he propelled himself toward the beast. He used all his human strength to plunge the sharp weapon into the demon's skull, killing it where it stood. It dropped at Gunn's feet with a dull thud.

Doyle and Gunn were both breathing hard as they stared down at the imposing creature that now lay dead on the ground between them. "That thing nearly ripped us to shreds." Gunn puffed.

"Some more than others." Doyle noted, turning to where Wesley was leaning up against the wall. He reached out for the other man, inspecting his wound. "You're gonna need a hospital, mate. Cordy can't patch a hole that size."

Wesley nodded, trying not to look down at the blood soaking through his shirt. His skin had gotten very pale, and Doyle was more than a little worried that he'd already lost a little too much blood. "Yes, I think that would be wise. Perhaps, before I pass out would be good." The injured man tried to stand with Doyle's assistance, but nearly slid back down to the floor. "Or after."

"I got him." Gunn said, gesturing for Doyle to move out of the way so Gunn could slip an arm under Wesley's uninjured shoulder. Doyle graciously stepped away and turned to see if Cordelia and the victim needed his help, but all he saw was the back of their heads as Cordelia helped the wounded girl limp toward the exit of the building.

And soon Gunn and Wesley were staggering in the same direction, leaving Doyle standing there suddenly feeling very left out. He was bruised and battered, but in no way needing medical attention; and even if he did need medical attention, he wasn't going to get it at a hospital. Not with his DNA. So this, as it seemed, was where they were going to part ways. Which was too bad, because there was nothing more he wanted to do than be with them, even if it was in a hospital waiting room.

Wesley stopped moving and gingerly twisted himself back in Doyle's direction, forcing Gunn to do the same. "We're going to start our own agency." He declared, sounding fairly bold considering the severe trauma he'd just suffered. Doyle had to wonder if he wasn't a touch delirious. "As we've proved tonight, we don't require Angel to fight evil."

"Good luck to ya." Doyle responded. "You'll be needing it."

"Feel free to hire us, should the need arise." Wesley continued, with a meaningful look. "Just because Angel turned his back on the mission, doesn't mean we will." With that he shuffled himself back in the other direction, once again forcing Gunn to move with him as they proceeded to the door and disappeared.

Doyle stood in the silence of the abandoned room, letting the dust settle around him. He thought he might stay there for a little while longer, inhaling the last remnants of his friends that remained in the room long after they were gone. Inhaling the last remnants of Cordelia that remained.

He had nothing else to do. Nowhere else to go. No one else to talk to. All that awaited him was the empty Hyperion—and even if it wasn't empty, it might as well be.

* * *

 _Thwap!_

Doyle whistled low under his breath as he watched Angel's knife hit the bull's eye. "Glad to see you're keeping up with your training. It'll really help with all that evil you're not fighting lately."

Giving Doyle only the most cursory of glances, Angel stomped back over to the target to retrieve the knives he'd thrown.

"So, that's it then?" Doyle wondered, opening his arms up questioningly. "No, 'hey Doyle, looks like ya got into a bit of a scuffle there. Say, ya didn't happen to have a vision and then go off and fight a demon that was meant for me, did ya?'"

Angel didn't look at Doyle, as he focused on the target, lining up his next shot. "I killed a dozen demons tonight." He said dully. "And then I set Darla and Drusilla on fire."

That certainly got Doyle's attention. His brows raised to their fullest height and he couldn't be sure, but he swore his heart started beating in slow motion. In fact, everything around him started going in slow motion, including Angel throwing the knife through the air. It glided smoothly, crossing the expanse of the room.

 _Thwap!_

"Ya killed 'em?" Doyle croaked, as what little bud of hope he had left, died on the vine. If Darla was dead, there would be no baby. This—all of this—had been for nothing. He was probably going to be sick.

"I don't think they're dead." Angel replied blankly, and Doyle felt a tidal wave of relief crash over him. His stomach flipped over again, and he still felt sick, but for an entirely different reason. "No deader than they started, anyway—what does it matter?" Now Angel turned to look at Doyle, his eyes clouded over with annoyance. "They're vampires, Doyle. _Demons_. They deserve to die. One by one."

Doyle was more than a little disturbed by the nonchalant delivery of Angel's rather malevolent decree. "So, no chance o' you two talking through your differences then, huh?" He said half-jokingly; the other half was entirely serious, although not particularly hopeful under the circumstances.

Angel said nothing to that, dropping his eyes to the second knife in his hand that he planned to fling at the target on the wall. He ran his fingers over the smooth metal blade.

"This is a bit dark even for you, man." Doyle admitted. "I hope y'know, beating Wolfram & Hart at their own game isn't actually beating 'em; it's way more like joining 'em than I'm comfortable with."

With a sudden motion, the knife in Angel's hand flew through the air, landing a hair's breath away from the first one. Bull's eye. "They need to pay." He seethed under his breath. "And I'm going to make sure they do."

Doyle swallowed hard as he watched Angel cross the room once more to retrieve his knives and then about-face and head back to his throwing position. The vampire paused as he lined up his next shot. "Oh, and Doyle, next time you borrow my car without asking…"

 _Thwap!_

That tiny shred of hope Doyle had been clinging to was wavering—threatening to disappear completely.

This wasn't Angel. This wasn't Angel at all.


	30. Blood Money, Pt 1

**"Blood Money," Part I**

Doyle checked his scratched watch—every time he looked at it he thought of Cordelia. Then again, he thought of her most of the time, whether he was looking at his watch or not. It's just that the watch actually meant something.

Her carefully chosen birthday gift had symbolized not only her love, but also her faith in the mission. After all, she hadn't chosen a timepiece by accident. She hadn't engraved it with the words "Time is on our side" to test her punning abilities. She had given him a watch for his birthday, because Doyle wouldn't have had another birthday if not for the radical revision to the timeline. And the timeline would never have been revised, if not for the mission. She loved him back then, not despite his dedication to the mission, but at least partly _because_ of it. That was how she'd been introduced to his "best qualities," as she told it. She saw he was capable of being brave and kind and loyal and she had loved him for those things. Now, however…

Now… well, he shouldn't be thinking of Cordelia, because she wouldn't be showing up this evening. At least, she'd better not, since Doyle had specifically asked Wesley not to involve her in this particular fight. For one thing, there were no victims who needed saving here, only a monster that needed killing. For another, the monster in question was an enormous, ferocious, two-headed monstrosity who breathed fire. Really not the kind of thing Cordelia's particular skillset would be useful in combatting.

Angel's skills, now those would've come in handy, but Angel had taken no interest In Doyle's plea to come slay what looked distinctly like a dragon. The vampire claimed he had other business to take care of and then promptly disappeared—sticking it to Wolfram & Hart, no doubt. Boy, that song had gotten old. And it was interrupting the regularly scheduled programming. It was a good thing Wesley and Gunn were willing and able to help Doyle deal with the visions, because Doyle didn't know what the heck he'd do if forced to slay this beast by himself.

Die trying, most likely.

Movement in the shadows caught Doyle's eye as well as the scent of two sweaty humans jogging through the sewer tunnel in Doyle's direction. They were both carrying their own weapons, which made the hefty bag slung over Doyle's shoulder superfluous. He should've figured they'd bring weapons to a dragon fight, but better safe than sorry.

"Thanks for coming." Doyle said to them by way of greeting, nodding his head toward the opposite end of the long, stinky tunnel. "It's this way."

"Is this thing really a dragon, bro?" Gunn asked excitedly.

"It breathes fire." Doyle answered with far less excitement. They sloshed along through the poorly lit underground with Doyle leading the way. "So, ah… How's Cordy?"

Doyle could practically hear the awkward glances that passed between the two men at his heels. It was Wesley's voice that answered him after a brief pause. "She's… Cordelia." He offered, in his generally diplomatic way. "A tad more withdrawn than usual, perhaps."

"Yeah, and withdrawn on that girl is _anything_ but usual." Gunn added, with far less tact.

"Oh, and she, um… did something different with her hair." Wesley went on, thoughtfully. "It's shorter."

"And the color changed." Gunn added. "There's this kinda streaky thing going on."

"Ah, yes, her hair is both shorter and lighter." Wesley confirmed. "It suits her. A much more… _cheerful_ look."

"Too bad she ain't anything resembling cheerful." Gunn finished.

Their back and forth banter about the current state of Cordelia's tresses would have made Doyle chuckle if it didn't make him so damn sad instead. He wanted to see it for himself, not get a second-hand play-by-play from the peanut gallery. More importantly, he hated the thought that she was unhappy. Even if it, hopefully, meant she missed him; he never wanted her to be anything other than cheerful. That was part of what made Cordy _Cordy_.

"Have you, um… reached out to her?" Wesley wondered, the apprehension evident in his voice.

Doyle kept walking, his back turned to both Wesley and Gunn, assuring that they wouldn't be able to see how much that question pained him. "More times than I can count, bud." He said plainly. "She's not interested in hearing what I have to say."

"Girl, can hold a grudge, I'll give her that." Gunn responded. "Not that I blame her for feeling betrayed."

That caused Doyle to swallow hard. _Betrayed_. That's how she felt? All because Doyle had "let" Angel fire her and then stuck with him to boot. Even if Doyle could understand where she was coming from, there wasn't a hell of a lot he could do to change it. Not when she wouldn't even speak to him.

As if reading Doyle's mind, Wesley's next question was remarkably astute. "I feel I must ask, Doyle—what's the point of working for Angel, if Angel won't work with you? I know you can't stop the visions, and you clearly care enough to continue to face them. We're more than willing to—"

Doyle stopped short, holding up a hand to silence Wesley.

 _ROOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAR!_

A stream of flame crossed their path along with a deafening roar, originating from a perpendicular tunnel. No question, they had found their dragon. And he didn't appear to be in a pleasant mood.

"I thought you said it _breathed_ fire!" Gunn complained, waving his hand in front of his nose to dissipate the foul stench that had accompanied the fireball.

"Alright, here we go, mates." Doyle replied, dropping his bag of weapons on the ground and yanking a long, pointy sword out of the top of it. Both Wesley and Gunn each had brought hefty axes, which they now held up in a show of readiness. "On the count of three…1…2…"

 _ROOOOOOAAAAAR!_

A second roar interrupted Doyle's count, but sounded suspiciously farther away than the first. Sticking his head around the corner, Doyle was only marginally relieved to see the gigantic beast moving away from them down the tunnel. Getting it while its back was turned was as good as it was gonna get. "Three! Three! Three!" He shouted as he launched into pursuit with the other two men close at his heels.

* * *

Doyle was fairly certain his back was broken, which was why he didn't move. Correction— _couldn't_ move. He was just lucky he'd landed somewhere he wasn't submerged in water, or else he probably would've drowned before anyone was able to come to his assistance. As it was, he was far less concerned about the state of his broken back, as he was about the fact that he was lying there in his demon body, having been forced into it by the fearsome creature they had just faced.

Had faced. Past tense. The dragon was dead now. It had been mostly dead even before it managed to break Doyle in half. And it was a pool of the creature's blood, rather than his own, that Doyle found himself soaking in thanks in no small part to Doyle's own demon DNA. He and his two compatriots had beheaded, disemboweled and repeatedly stabbed the thing until it ceased its writhing and lay motionless several yards away. But they'd better remove the second head, just in case.

"Doyle? Oh, dear. Can you move?" Wesley's concerned face popped into view, confirming Doyle's suspicions about the status of his broken back.

"Not at this precise moment." Doyle grunted in reply, wriggling his body a bit to determine what he would have to twist in order to fix things. Dislocating his neck was so much easier, mainly because he could reach it without assistance. Same could be said of his extremities, shoulders and hips. The middle of his back, however, was a challenge. "Gimme a minute."

"Is there something I can do to help?" Wesley wondered.

"Ah… yeah." Doyle answered with some effort. "The problem's somewhere in the upper middle of the spine there."

"Within the thoracic curve." Wesley confirmed, squatting down and looking a little baffled where to start in terms of the fixing. Finally, he settled for lifting Doyle into a sitting position and giving him a rather awkward bear hug. "Is that… doing anything?"

"Aside from making me incredibly uncomfortable?" Doyle quipped. "Ya gotta twist, not squeeze."

Another moment later and Gunn had stomped over, gripped Doyle from behind and wrenched his body violently—an action that would have surely severed the spine of an individual who wasn't half Brachen. As it was, Gunn's maneuver did the trick. "Thanks, man." Doyle groaned, as he shook out the remaining kinks in his back and stood up. Looking down at the thick layer of blood and sewage he was covered in, he was glad he hadn't chosen to wear his favorite brown leather jacket tonight. Because everything he was currently wearing would need to go straight into the incinerator.

"That was some pretty impressive dragon-slaying!" Gunn enthused, wearing a large grin to echo his sentiment. "That thing is deader than dead."

"Yeah." Doyle agreed, gesturing toward the remains of the gigantic beast "And we're less dead than dead. Ya mind gettin' that second head, man? Not looking to take any chances."

Gunn's grew even wider, as he slung the already filthy axe over his shoulder and marched toward the front of the creature. "Don't gotta ask me twice—or, you do, but only 'cause of the two-head thing. Definitely don't gotta ask a third time."

Doyle searched the sludge at his feet and finally spied the sword he'd been fighting with. He lifted it from the slimy substance it was mostly submerged in and made a disgusted face as he inspected it. Angel would definitely know that he'd borrowed it—doubtful it'd ever be quite as shiny as before. But, at least it wasn't Angel's favorite, and in any case, Doyle didn't really care. Dead dragon, after all.

"Do you suppose we need to worry about disposal methods?" Wesley questioned from where he stood beside Doyle, eyeing the ridiculously oversized carcass.

"Ah, let the city handle it." Doyle remarked, waving away the insurmountable task of clean up duty. "They'll think it's one of those alligators in the sewers, grown to mutant size."

Wesley made a face that suggested he didn't dislike that particular cover story, nor the prospect of going home and showering rather than chopping up a giant demon into tiny pieces. Doyle saw that Gunn was hard at work chopping through the demon's second neck, which was nearly as thick as the already-severed one. "Thanks again for the backup, man. When I say I couldn't have done it without ya, well, I really, _really_ mean it."

"Anytime." Wesley responded in kind, and then gave Doyle a curious look, gesturing to his own face. "Um, Doyle, you know you're still wearing your…"

Doyle knew. The spikes were still there. The green skin was still there. The red eyes. He had, of course, tried to shake it off the very moment his spine had been realigned properly, desperate to shed this skin as soon as he possibly could. Desperate to assure himself that his other face still existed. And, just as he had experienced in the past, just as he feared he'd experience from now on, he was stuck. Unable to turn back into his human form. And assuming he was, at some point, able to successfully turn back, he suspected he would be bringing a sizable chunk of the demon along with him.

He wanted to scream, so angry was he that he'd been forced to morph during this battle. Then again, if he hadn't had another face to morph into, he'd be dead. So there was that.

"Still healing." Doyle replied, by way of explanation. It was the explanation he wished was true. "Listen, I've gotta circle back for the rest o' my weapons. I assume ya two can find your way outta the tunnels, yeah?"

"I think we'll be able to manage." Wesley agreed, giving Doyle a farewell nod. "'Til next time."

Doyle was about to turn away when he found himself pausing. Like it or not, Wesley and Gunn were Doyle's only remaining connection to Cordelia. They were the only way he could send her a message that he knew would get received—anything else she could easily delete, throw away or ignore, but Wesley's mouth, that wasn't so easily stopped. And there was a very important message he _needed_ her to receive that evening. "Hey Wes, will ya do me a favor? When ya go back and see Cordy… will ya wish her a happy birthday?"

Wesley turned to Doyle, his brows raising upward in obvious surprise. "I didn't realize it was her birthday." He replied. "She didn't mention it."

"Yeah, she has a habit of doing that." Doyle answered, with a small smile of reflection, recalling how he'd only accidentally discovered her birthday the prior year, thanks to an answering machine message. The cupcake Doyle had hastily bought her wasn't much, but he recalled the brilliant smile that had spread across her face upon receiving it. He'd been looking forward to giving her something that would make this year's birthday smile far outshine that last one. But, alas, it wasn't meant to be. Had he tried to send her a gift, it'd probably end up in a landfill beside the Christmas gift he'd been foolish enough to leave under her tree.

Doyle had moved away from Wesley, sloshing through the putrid water at his feet, returning to the main tunnel where he'd abandoned the sack full of Angel's weapons. It was only right that he should retrieve them, but that wasn't the real reason he'd left Wesley and Gunn. In actuality, he wasn't planning on leaving the sewer tunnels anytime soon—not until he could morph back into his human face. It might be hours before Doyle would be able to do that. _If_ he even could. For now, he was a lone demon, forced into hiding underground where he belonged.

He felt something wet trickling between his facial spikes, and it took him a moment to realize it was tears. He was crying.

Well, he had to look at the bright side, if one could call it that. No matter how demonic he was on the outside, he could still feel things like a man. And right now, the man in him was mourning his humanity. Because he knew it had just been dealt a deathblow.

And for the first time, he was almost glad Cordelia was no longer a part of his life.


	31. Blood Money, Pt 2

**"Blood Money," Part II**

"This is so great!" Cordelia enthused after Wesley and Gunn had finished describing the fierce battle they'd just waged beneath the city streets. She picked up a pen and started jotting down advertising ideas on the pad she held in her hand. "We can add dragon-slaying to our list of services offered. That's _gotta_ help drum up some business—of course, we should probably pick a name for the agency first. Something to go in front of the 'formerly Angel Investigations' part."

A hiss from across the room caused Cordelia to pause her writing and observe Wesley scooting away from Clover on the couch as she batted her tiny paws at him. Gunn, who had been seated beside Wesley, stood up swiftly, irritated that his space had been encroached upon. He moved instead to the armchair across the room.

"Oh, don't mind her. She's just being protective." Cordelia observed with a dismissive wave. "You should've seen how feisty she got with the cable guy the other day. I don't think she likes having men in the apartment who aren't Doy—" She caught herself before she uttered his name and amended her sentence rather poorly. "…familiar."

"How long 'til we're considered familiar?" Gunn asked, giving the tiny, but fierce, cat a skeptical look.

Cordelia rolled her eyes at Gunn's theatrics. "You just slayed a fire-breathing dragon and you can't handle a ten-pound ball of fur?"

"Cats are way meaner than dragons." Gunn proclaimed. "Which is why I've always been more of a dog person."

"No wonder Clover doesn't like you." Cordelia muttered under her breath, before segueing back to business. "So how much did we make tonight?" She inquired, ignoring Gunn's concerns about her non-threatening feline companion. She looked up to see an awkward look pass between Wesley and Gunn. "Oh, come on, guys. Don't tell me you didn't bring up the matter of payment with the client. How do you think we're going to pay rent on the new office-space I just found for us?"

That changed the mood considerably, as both their faces lit up with excitement. Cordelia, herself, was smilingly broadly as well—she felt reinvigorated by their new business endeavor, even if it was basically a replica of the old one, minus one champion and a seer. Who needed those guys anyway? They had brains, muscle and business savvy between the three people occupying her living room, and there was no short supply of evil out there to be fought. All they _really_ needed was a catchy new name.

"You found us an office?" Wesley asked, literally sitting on the edge of his seat.

"It's not much." She admitted, with a slight shrug. "Kinda small, but it's better than working out of my apartment."

"How very official of us." Wesley noted with a satisfied grin.

"So what are we still doing sitting here? Let's go take a look at the joint!" Gunn said enthusiastically, popping up out of his chair. "Back in business and ain't it grand. I'll bring the truck around."

Gunn bounded out the door with a level of excitement Cordelia couldn't recall ever seeing from him. She found herself laughing as he disappeared out the front door, and she returned to the notepad in front of her, doodling some possible names they could put on the front door. _The Chase Agency_. She raised her brows with admiration—that really did have a nice ring to it. But it would cost money to afford a fancy stencil, so back to the matter at hand…

"Just give me the name and number of the dragon-removal client and I'll take care of the rest." Cordelia addressed Wesley who was still seated on the other end of the room. She smiled over at him reassuringly. "Trust me, I was born to send invoices."

Wesley's eyes immediately fell to the floor in front of his feet and Cordelia's stomach did a little flip as she put two-and-two together. She should've known. How many people would call about a dragon in the sewer system? "It was a vision." She guessed, staring back down at the pad in front of her with a rapidly forming frown. "Well, that doesn't mean we can't charge him. The visions aren't in our job description anymore. If he wants help, he's gonna have to pay for it like anyone else."

The resulting look she saw on Wesley's face told her that he didn't quite agree with that sentiment. She let out an aggravated sigh as she crossed to the dining table and tossed the pen and pad there, placing her hands on her hips. No matter how hard she tried not to think of him, he crept back in, making himself ever-present in her mind. And while initially, thoughts of him were accompanied by either blinding rage or an ache in her chest, that wasn't necessarily the case anymore. She still ached, that much was true, but she was less angry than she had been before. And far more willing to admit how much she missed him.

Not _out_ _loud_ , of course.

She absently lifted her hand to her chest, feeling the glass heart that hung hidden beneath her blouse, flush against her skin. She shouldn't be wearing it, she knew that. She shouldn't have even kept it. But the truth was, she really, _really_ liked it. And as long as she wore it, there was some small kernel of hope left inside her. Hope that she'd find a good reason to forgive him. Hope that she'd be brave enough to actually do so.

After all, they were over, but maybe not _over_ over.

"Considering what the Host told us—I think a special discount may be in order for vision-related cases." Wesley suggested. She could sense that he'd stood up from the couch and was approaching the place she stood.

"Hmmppph." She responded with a derisive snort, but at this point it was mostly just for show. Charging Doyle meant contacting him, which she wasn't quite ready to do. "Maybe just this once."

"Also, um…" He cleared his throat awkwardly as he came up behind her and tried to sound more chipper. "Happy birthday!"

She spun toward him with widened eyes and a dropped jaw. "You remembered?!" She asked with total and utter surprise. "We only had that ridiculous alarm system for, like, a day, but I guess it did the job, huh?"

"Well, actually… Doyle happened to mention it." Wesley admitted with chagrin. "In fact, he asked me to extend those particular wishes. But, I too, wish you a happy birthday, of course. Perhaps, we can stop somewhere for dessert on our way back from the new office? Do it up proper, with cake and everything. What do you say?"

Cordelia felt her throat close up as she heard the message Wesley had been asked to deliver. Her eyes traveled across the expanse of her dining room and fell on the small pink box she could see sitting on her kitchen counter. Sitting inside that box was a single cupcake. She had found it on her doorstep first thing that morning, and although there'd been no card attached, she knew it was from Doyle, even though she chose to pretend otherwise. Like the necklace, she couldn't bring herself to trash it.

Of course, she couldn't exactly eat it, either.

"Way too many calories." She replied absently. "Thanks, but I'm not feeling all that celebratory this year."

A long beat of awkward silence fell over them and Cordelia kept her back to Wesley as she asked the question she was trying not to ask, but couldn't contain any longer. "How was he? I mean, not that I care anymore, but did he, y'know… seem okay?"

If Wesley was surprised by her question he didn't let on, but his response was somewhat lacking in detail. "He seemed like Doyle."

"I guess that means he's drinking too much." She mumbled in reply. Based on the phone call she'd received from Harriet before the New Year, she had no doubt his drinking habits had reverted to form. And when she'd seen him last, the night in the alley, it didn't take any special demon senses to smell the whiskey and cigarette smoke that clung to him, or to see the heavy bags under his eyes. She wished it could feed her anger; but instead, it only made her feel concern for him.

"I realize it's none of my business, Cordelia." Wesley declared, inching forward to stand almost directly beside her at the table. "But, things are somewhat different now—we are all newly employed, for one. There's no shame in reconsidering your choice where Doyle is concerned. No shame in forgiving him, if that's something you wish to do. Despite your claims to the contrary, I know you still care for him. And, if given the chance, I've no doubt he'd be willing to do most anything to make things right with you."

"Not _anything_." Cordelia replied stubbornly. "There's one thing he'll never do."

"Yes, well, Doyle has the unenviable task of doing a job he was chosen for, rather than doing something he chose for himself." Wesley noted. "I don't think any of us can truly appreciate just how that feels."

"So, what are you saying, Wesley?" Cordelia asked testily. Wesley's words were hitting her in a raw nerve. Especially considering how little he knew about Doyle being chosen, for not one, but _two_ jobs where Angel was concerned. If he thought she was being unreasonable now, imagine what he'd say if he heard the rest of it. "You think I was wrong to break up with him?"

"I'm sure you had your reasons far beyond what I am privy to." Wesley calmly answered her, placing his hands down on he table. She finally ventured a glance in his direction and was surprised to see the amount of sympathy that waited for her there. "But speaking as an outside observer… If you love him and he, you; then what does it matter who each of you work for, as long as you're still fighting on the same side?"

"And what side _are_ the bosom buddies on these days?" She remarked bitingly.

She felt the bile rise in her throat and with it, all the hurt and anger she thought was subsiding. Apparently it wasn't quite as gone as she'd believed. The night she'd been fired, she'd been more furious than she could ever remember being at Doyle, and it didn't take much to channel that anger once again. Not because he chose to keep his job—she actually _did_ understand that on some level—but because he had no problem _cutting her out of it!_

After everything they'd been through, everything they'd built together, he'd had the nerve to justify her termination. Which felt a whole lot like he had co-signed it.

Until that night, perhaps she hadn't even realized how much she valued her job at Angel Investigations. How important it was to her. Ironically, she thought she only liked the job _because_ of Doyle. She thought she only liked helping people because it made him proud of her. She didn't think it was really a part of who she was. And while those things may have been true initially, they weren't anymore. She liked the job because _she_ liked the job. She liked helping people because it made _her_ proud of herself. And, as it turned out, she was really good at it.

Plus, averting the apocalypse was _way_ easier than getting an audition in this godforsaken town.

It was a part of who she was now, a part of who she'd become. She was meant to fight evil, with or without Doyle. And, despite everything, she was glad to be getting another chance to do it… even if it was _without_ Doyle this time.

"As tonight will attest—Doyle is still fighting the good fight." Wesley pointed out, interrupting her personal reverie. "Which is far more than I can say of Angel."

"I'm guessing he asked you to plead his case, huh?" She shot back defensively, arching a challenging brow at her co-worker. "You slay a dragon together and now you're getting out your pom-poms? Go team Doyle, go!"

Wesley laughed at that, realizing he looked quite guilty as charged. "I assure you, he only requested that I wish you a happy birthday." He clarified. "The rest of the thoughts are my own, and perhaps… I should keep them to myself from now on?"

She nodded with an air of finality, keeping her face unreadable as she clung to her internal resolve. "That's probably a good idea."

"Fair enough." Wesley replied. "And just for the record, I am team Cordelia. Ra ra ra!"

That made her smile, not particularly wide, but it was a genuine type of smile, which she supposed was exactly what Wesley had been after all along. "Y'know, that's not a bad name for the new agency." She said teasingly.

A honk from outside, signaled that Gunn had pulled up to the curb and was waiting for them.

"It seems our chariot awaits." Wesley announced, extending an elbow toward her in a most gentlemanly fashion. "Shall we?"

She took his arm gladly and they made their way out to their third musketeer. "Maybe we should discuss our agency's new name… over some cake?"

* * *

Doyle was returning Angel's weapons to the cabinet in the lobby when the vampire appeared out of the shadows. It was pre-dawn, which meant Angel had probably been out prowling through the night, just now returning to the hotel to avoid the sun. Not unlike what Doyle himself had been forced to do—his demonic visage having clung to his bones for the majority of the long night.

At least he hadn't spent the entire night in the sewer tunnels. No, once he'd finished sulking about the fact that the dragon-battle had severed his precarious grip on humanity, Doyle had decided to do what any self-loathing demon, covered in filth would do. He had dragged his slimy ass to the most disreputable demon bar he knew, and he'd drank. Heavily. Mostly because he had to drink heavily in his demon form to even feel a proper buzz. Stupid demon physiology. How was he supposed to spiral into depravity if he couldn't afford enough drinks to get fall-down drunk?!

The longer he'd sat at the bar, stuck in his spikes, the more convinced he'd become that his human face was gone for good. But lo and behold, just after his fifth round—or was it the sixth?—he felt the shift. He felt the control return, and he immediately phased back. Just like that. Human once more.

Well, human on the outside anyway.

It had taken hours for him to regain the ability to phase. Much longer than it had ever taken before. Which meant, whatever was happening to him, was happening at an exponential rate. And who knew what other changes may have occurred—what new "talents" would he discover?

"East Hills Teen Center. You know of it?" Although he'd known Angel was standing there behind him, the vampire's voice still took Doyle by surprise. Due in no small part to the words it was saying.

"Hello to you, too." Doyle muttered as he arranged the weapons in the cabinet.

Angel continued, ignoring Doyle's obvious irritation. "It's for a case I'm working on. I could use your help."

"Nice of you to remember that I do, in fact, still work here." Doyle retorted, closing the cabinet door, flipping the lock and leaning the filthy short sword up against the outside of it. He turned to Angel with a beleaguered sigh. "I know the place y'mean—takes in runaways. That sorta thing. They in some kinda trouble?"

Angel quietly observed Doyle's movements, taking particular notice of his haggard and soiled appearance. "You fought the dragon from your vision. By yourself?"

"Killed it. And, I had help." Doyle said simply, not bothering to elaborate. He doubted Angel actually cared about the dragon or who had slayed it. He probably only mentioned it because he was surprised Doyle would or could do such a thing. And it was clear by Angel's non-reaction that Doyle was right in his assumptions.

"The new case—it involves Wolfram & Hart."

"Sounds like the same ol' case to me, bud." Doyle replied with undisguised disappointment. "What do they have to do with the teen center?"

"That's the question I want to answer." Angel explained. "Wolfram & Hart bailed the place out of financial trouble, they defend the kids that stay there pro bono, and they're throwing a big fundraiser in a couple days—supposedly all proceeds go to East Hills, but I don't think so."

"I guess even evil corporations have a charitable side." Doyle offered, keeping up his veil of skepticism. "PR purposes and all that."

"They're raising the money for themselves." Angel insisted, pacing the floor. "I bet the shelter will only see a fraction, if that much. This is Wolfram & Hart we're talking about, there's always an angle. Usually the angle is to screw with _me_."

Doyle watched Angel's agitated motions, more than a little unsettled by his friend's seemingly unhinged behavior. It wasn't getting any better, runaways or no runaways. "Little self-centered there, yeah? Not everything those lawyers do is about _you_ personally." Doyle reminded him, taking a few steps into Angel's path, so the other man would be forced to stop pacing. "They like to spread their evil all around. Which is why I agree with ya—they probably _are_ skimming off the top, and the bottom, and all the in between. But what's the play here?"

"To hurt them." Angel seethed, and then he did pause from his pacing to fleetingly give Doyle direct eye contact.

"And what about the shelter?" Doyle questioned. "Ya gonna hurt them, too? 'Cause it sounds like they're the innocent party in all this—I won't help stick it to Wolfram & Hart if it means sticking it to those kids as well."

"Now you sound like her." Angel grumbled under his breath. Doyle had no idea who the 'her' in question was, but he could see Angel considering something silently. Hopefully, he was considering a plan that didn't involve crashing and burning a fundraiser benefiting runaways. When the vampire's eyes returned to his own, Doyle saw a silent plea there—something he hadn't seen in quite a while. "There's a girl who runs the center—Anne. She's a good person. We're gonna need her help on this….but, she doesn't trust me."

"Ah, personable guy like you? Can't imagine why she wouldn't." Doyle remarked dryly. "So that's it then. Ya finally acknowledge my presence 'cause ya need me to go sweet talk the girl?"

"I do." Angel confirmed, finally stepping around Doyle and retreating toward the main staircase leading up to the second floor.

"You'd better figure out how to do this without hurting the shelter. Otherwise, this'll be the last favor I do for ya, bud." Doyle called after him. "And I am _definitely_ borrowing your car!"


	32. Blood Money, Pt 3

**"Blood Money," Part III**

"You're looking at more than two million there. Compliments of Angel Investigations."

Doyle had plopped the hefty bag down on Anne's desk, and the contents rattled within. He wondered if she'd notice the blood splatter on the side of the bag, but then he figured, even if she did notice, it wouldn't matter—she'd still take the money contained inside. And he certainly couldn't blame her for that. Quite the opposite—he admired her for it.

He observed the slim blonde standing before him, and he saw the barest flicker of concern in her eyes, which quickly clouded over with resolve. Just as he suspected. Her dedication to the kids mattered more than anything her conscience might be telling her about where the money had come from. Or what it had cost someone else.

"If ya need help selling the jewelry, I know a guy." Doyle offered. "But ya may be better off sticking it in a safety deposit box for a while. Let things settle for a bit. Wolfram & Hart can never know ya have this—"

"I can find a way to hide it." She assured him, her eyes finally unlocking from the bag in order to meet his head on. "You don't have to worry, Doyle. You've done more than enough already."

He really hadn't done all that much, all things considered. Mostly he'd played messenger-guy, while Angel concocted a rather impulsive and dangerous scheme to rob Wolfram & Hart's big charity ball, with the help of an old friend, who was really more of a nemesis. That nemesis was now a pile of ash in the Hyperion lobby, but had things gone differently, it could've been Angel's remains Doyle would be sweeping up when he got home. And, if that were the case, Anne and the kids would've gotten nothing.

This way was better. He could tell that Anne agreed.

In fact, her intense gaze made him more than a little uncomfortable. Maybe that was because he suspected there was more behind it than simply respect and gratitude. After all, that was one of the reasons she'd went along with this whole ordeal. She trusted Doyle—she _liked_ him.

Which was entirely his own fault. When he'd come the first time, trying to convince her to trust his vampire of a boss who'd spent a sizable chunk of time stalking her, he'd purposely turned up the charm dial to eleven. That's right, he'd flirted shamelessly, played up the Irish charm, flashed the dimple. He'd tried that countless times throughout his life to get what he wanted from women, and he could count the number of times it worked on one hand. This, apparently, was one of them. Lucky him.

Now there was an incredible young woman standing in front of him, giving him the Bambi eyes, and he was in no position to be on the receiving end. Which wasn't to say that he didn't genuinely like the girl, because he most certainly did. They happened to have a lot in common, as a matter of fact. Not to mention that she was beautiful and headstrong and kind-hearted. Reminded him a lot of Harriet, when they'd first met. Reminded him a lot of Cordelia now, minus the sharp tongue. For all intents and purposes, Anne was exactly the kind of woman Doyle would have been looking for, if he hadn't already found the woman he wanted.

And lost her.

It had happened to him twice. There wasn't going to be a third time.

"I'm guessing ya won't be needing that old furniture I offered." He said with a nervous chuckle, gesturing to the bloody bag before him. "Not when ya can buy an entire department store if ya wanted to."

"We can still use the furniture." Anne insisted, a warm smile flickering to her lips. "Have to keep up appearances, remember? Besides, there are a lot of other things that we need to do with this money—medical expenses. Dental care. The list of things these kids need is endless."

He nodded absently, suddenly catching a strange scent in the air. No, not strange. Familiar. But, strange he'd be smelling it here, of all places. He turned to the doorway, tempted to rush out into the hall and find the source. She couldn't possibly be here, could she?

"Is everything okay?" Anne's voice pulled him back to the present tense and he realized she had moved slightly closer to him and was giving him a rather concerned look. "You look like—I don't know, like you've seen a ghost or something."

That was more or less accurate. Smelled a ghost, at any rate.

Doyle gaped at her for a moment, realizing his jaw was unhinged. It was hard for him lately, to stay focused when his demon senses were sharp enough to cause such easy distraction. Doyle almost envied Angel at this point—walking around with a vampire nose had to be easier than this. While vampires were superior to Brachens in most every instance, sense of smell was not one of them. In fact, as demons went, Brachens could probably be considered the bloodhounds of the bunch. As it was, Doyle didn't want to know the things he knew simply by smelling them. It felt like an invasion of privacy. And it wasn't just his sense of smell that was heightened nowadays; his night vision was enhanced, too. His hearing was sharper, although not necessarily superhuman. And, generally speaking, he was more aware of everything around him. Like an animal. It was how he could identify Cordelia's scent in the air, but know that Cordelia herself wasn't present.

But her scent was getting closer.

He closed his mouth and then opened it again, trying to force something vaguely intelligent through his lips. "Ah, the place…it's just bringing back old memories." He lied, although that wasn't entirely a lie. Being there did remind him of the days he'd spent volunteering at shelters and soup kitchens. Reminded him of being an idealistic young man with his whole life ahead of him. Reminded him of when he thought he was human, and never had to worry about the loss of such a thing. Reminded him of Harry…

"Resident or volunteer?" Anne asked, not unkindly. That was an impressive thing—that she could ask a question like that, without it sounding judgmental.

"The latter." Doyle clarified. "It's how I met my wife."

He watched as Anne's face registered the surprise of him having a wife, followed by the subtle disappointment. That was, of course, why he'd said it in the first place. It was also why he'd said "wife" rather than "ex-wife." It was easier to let her jump to false conclusions about his current marital status than to explain the real reasons he was emotionally unavailable. Although, telling her he was a broken-hearted half-demon, who may be rapidly becoming a whole-demon, and who may be single-handedly botching his best friend's entire destiny, was a sure-fire way to get a woman to run in the opposite direction. Seemed like overkill though.

Anne recovered quickly enough from the revelation that Doyle was off the market, her smile barely wavered before returning in full force. "If you ever get the volunteer bug again—we could always use you around here."

He would've responded, and he would've done so politely, if it wasn't for the fact whoever was wearing Cordelia's scent was just about to—

A slender girl with long dark curls and large brown eyes popped into the frame of the doorway, wearing a floral blouse—a blouse Doyle would have recognized even if it hadn't been laced with the essence of Cordelia.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." The young girl said apologetically, backpedaling out of the room. Her large eyes were red and watery, evidence that she'd been crying. Evidence that she was on the verge of crying once again.

"That's okay, Tiffany. What happened?" Anne asked, turning away from Doyle to give the girl in the doorway her rapt attention. "Is this about Malcolm again?"

Doyle was relieved to have the distraction. He was considerably less relieved by the realization that Cordelia's belongings were on the body of the young girl sniffling in the doorway. Angel must have brought them to the shelter when he'd tried to make contact with Anne initially.

Well, that was rude. When Doyle had moved the bag of Cordelia's clothes from room 505 to the basement, he hadn't done it because he wanted to get rid of them. The truth was, with his demon senses being as erratic as they were, he needed to remove her things from his sleeping quarters. They were driving him crazy—constantly being reminded of her, with every inhalation. It was keeping him up at night. So, he'd taken the bag downstairs, and stashed it beside his old furniture. He hoped she might come by the hotel to retrieve them, eventually, affording him a chance to actually see and communicate with her. He happened to know she was rather fond of that blouse.

If she ever found out about this, she was going to be even more angry at Angel than she already was—and she'd probably blame Doyle for it. Again.

Maybe it was for the best. Clinging to her belongings wasn't going to bring her back to him. And, in any case, he wasn't sure he wanted her to come back. Not anymore. Not when he feared what he might _become_ tomorrow, or the next day. What he might already be…

"I-I don't know what to do. He said… He said I should get rid of it." The girl name Tiffany had burst into hysterical tears rather abruptly, causing Anne to wrap her arms around the girl in a soothing gesture. If he was understanding right it was an unwanted teen pregnancy type of situation—well, that put things into perspective. Everyone had his or her fair share of problems, but this kid was just that. A kid. Probably not much older than 16. She shouldn't have to deal with such an adult problem.

If there was ever an opportune moment for Doyle to make his exit, it was now. He moved toward the woman and the girl embracing in the doorway, waiting until Anne let go of the youth and looked up. He silently signaled that he'd be leaving and she nodded back at him in agreement and mouthed a "thank you." Then she slung her arm around the sobbing teenager's shoulders and ushered her into the office to counsel her through the crisis she was facing.

As the door closed behind them, Doyle was reminded of how important a place like this was to those who had nothing and no one else to guide them. It was a good thing Angel had managed to get that money. A place like this should never shut down. Everyone needed somewhere to go.

Doyle wished he had somewhere to go—or rather, someone to go _to_. Seeing Anne counsel the young girl reminded him how vital it was to have a compassionate shoulder to lean on. It could be all the difference between making it through a crisis and giving up completely. And there was no question that Doyle was now in crisis. He might be putting on a brave face, trying to keep things together on the outside, but inside he was collapsing. With Cordelia out of the picture, the only shoulder he had to turn to was Angel's, but he wouldn't hold his breath for his friend to actually be a friend again. Which left him with no one.

Well, come to think of it, that wasn't true. He still had someone he could lean on—someone who happened to know a lot about demons, and who actually liked helping them. Someone who had tried to help him for a very long time—only he'd been too stubborn to let her. But, things were different now. He _could_ call Harriet now.

Maybe not _now_ now. Doyle took a quick glance at his watch as he headed toward the front door of the teen center. It was late. Too late to call Harriet tonight. But tomorrow, he would. Tomorrow, he'd finally ask for help.


	33. Blood Money, Pt 4

**"Blood Money," Part IV**

Doyle shifted anxiously in the booth at the back of the diner, spinning the coffee mug around on the table in front of him. When he looked up there was a honey-blonde with a warm smile heading in his direction. One who still called him by his middle name, no matter how many times he corrected her—well, he'd actually given up on that front.

"Thanks for coming." He said, by way of greeting as she slid into the booth across from him.

"I'm glad you finally decided to call me back." Harriet responded, giving Doyle a meaningful once-over. "Next time, don't call me out of the blue, make me worry and then wait a small eternity to get back to me. It's not polite."

Doyle signaled to the waiter, even as Harriet chided him for his bad calling habits. He knew it wasn't fair that he'd called her drunk and depressed and then hadn't called her back when she followed up with concerns. He even knew that she'd try to reach him at Cordelia's—Harry had mentioned as much in one of her multiple messages. He'd be lying if he said he didn't wonder how _that_ conversation had gone.

"I'm sorry I made ya worry." Doyle said sincerely. "I've been busy… and a bit outta sorts lately, to be honest."

"I'm guessing you haven't worked things out with Cordelia?" She asked sensitively.

He shook his head by way of answer, dropping his eyes into the bottom of his empty mug. The waiter came over at that moment and began refilling the mug with dark-brown liquid, as he addressed Harriet. "Can I get you something, ma'am?"

"Just coffee, please." She responded, flipping over the mug that had already been placed in front of her and allowing the waiter to fill her mug as well. "That's all for now. Thanks."

The waiter floated away, leaving the two occupants of the corner booth with their brimming cups of hot coffee. It was by this time that Doyle had noticed something very different about Harriet—something he would never have been able to sense a few months ago. "You're seeing someone."

It was a statement, not a question and he could see that it took her by surprise, although her reaction was fairly understated. "I am, as a matter of fact." She replied evenly, pulling one of the sugar packets from the holder at the edge of the table and tapping it a few times before ripping it open.

"It serious?" He probed, eyeing her movements and noticing that she seemed a little uncomfortable discussing her personal life with him. Understandable, considering what had happened the last time Doyle had gotten entangled in her love life.

Harriet finished pouring the sugar into her mug and slowly stirred the contents with her spoon, finally lifting her eyes to meet Doyle's across the table. "It's getting to be." She acknowledged. "We met at the university—he's in the history department. Intelligent, well-traveled, completely human… but, everyone has their flaws." Her teasing smile only lingered for a moment before he saw the apprehension fill her eyes. "Please don't tell me you've been having Angel follow me again. I thought we were past all that."

"We are." Doyle assured her, almost having to laugh. He wished that was how he knew; he would've preferred that to the truth. "I only know what I know 'cause… ah, well, that's actually the reason I called ya."

A puzzled expression crossed her face as she waited for him to explain himself. He could only imagine what she was thinking he would say. Whatever it was, it probably wasn't even close to what he actually had to say.

"It's demon-related." He confessed, shifting his eyes uncomfortably back and forth between Harriet and his coffee mug. "And I know you've done a lotta studying of the subject—enough to be an authority. So, ah… how much d'ya know about demon-hybrids?"

She blinked several times, clearly taken aback by the unexpected query. "I've done some research on the more common types, including Brachens." Harriet conceded, choosing her words carefully, aware of just what a delicate topic this was to discuss with Doyle. "That's using the term hybrid loosely, of course—I think you already know that the majority of demons in this dimension have _some_ human DNA in their bloodline, but if you're asking specifically about those who are as much human as demon, like you… I'll be honest, the studies are limited. I think you can guess why."

Doyle felt the immediate disappointment show on his face. Not that it was a surprise exactly. He'd been through enough of Wesley's books and done enough web searches to know that information about demon hybrids existed, but wasn't terribly extensive or helpful. What he _was_ able to find certainly hadn't come close to answering the types of questions he was looking to ask.

"What's this about?" Harriet asked, tilting her head at him in curiosity. "If you're coming to me, I have to assume you've exhausted all your other resources. Don't be bashful, Francis—what do you want to know exactly?"

"Do they ever… _change_?" He blurted out the question that had been plaguing him for months, and he almost choked on it. "Get stronger, I mean. Evolve?"

Harriet, being the consummate professional she was, focused on the question rather than analyzing the man who'd struggled to spit the words out. She sat back in the booth and thought for a moment before nodding slowly. "Well, if we're talking broadly… Sure, there are many demon breeds who change over time—whether they're hybrids or not. Some molt, or shed; others go through metamorphoses, particularly during maturation." At that point, she must have realized just how much paler her already pale companion was, and her tone changed to something slightly less detached. "If we're talking about Brachens, which I suspect we are, then none of that applies. The Brachen lifecycle is very similar to that of a human—changes come during puberty, but they're minimal."

"You're talking about the full-bloods." Doyle pointed out. "Or, mostly full anyway. What about the ones like me, who weren't always demons? Can it get worse?"

"What do you mean by worse?" She questioned. "You mean, the presentation of the demon traits?"

Her question made it sound so clinical, so medical. Like the disease he'd always thought it was. "I mean, worse!" He snapped, losing his patience for a moment, but then took it back down a notch. He couldn't take this out on Harriet. It wasn't her fault. "I'm sorry." He cleared his throat and leaned forward against the table, dropping his voice lower, since his minor outburst may have attracted unwanted attention. "Thing is… I've been changing, Harry. That line between human and demon's been getting thinner, and I'm thinking it's gonna go away completely one o' these days."

"Francis… no wonder you're a nervous wreck." She soothed, leaning toward him and reaching out a hand to grip his arm that rested on the table. "I know this is hard for you to talk about, but I need you to explain, in as much detail as you can. What _precisely_ has been happening to you?"

He absently lifted his other hand to his forehead and began massaging some of the tension away. Closing his eyes, he continued to speak to her, trying to detach himself from the words spilling from his mouth. "It's been happening for nearly a year, maybe longer and I just wasn't noticing at first. Started with a little extra intuition—nothing to cause any real concern. Figured I was just getting my act together, thinking with a clearer head and all that." He explained, swallowing heavily and finally dropping his hand away from his face and lifting his tormented eyes back to the woman across the table who still gripped his arm in a show of silent support. "Then, it started gettin' a bit more obvious that it wasn't _just_ my clearer head. It's my senses—all five of 'em, but smell most of all—working at much-more-than-human levels. All while I'm still wearing this face."

Harriet maintained a fairly placid, observant expression, but he saw the look of understanding register in her eyes as she finally started putting the pieces together. She slowly retracted her hand, but not in a hurried way. Rather, she wrapped her hands around her coffee mug as she ruminated over what he'd just told her. "And this is happening right now?" She inquired. "All the time? You appear human but still have access to your demon senses?"

Doyle gave her a look that told her the answer even before his lips reiterated it. "That's how I know you're seeing someone. And, if y'think that's disturbing, just imagine how I feel being on the receiving end and not being able to shut it off."

"I can see why that would bother you." She agreed, although to her credit, she didn't look nearly as bothered as he was. "What about your other demon abilities? Are they present as well?"

"I might be a bit stronger." He admitted. "But as far as I can tell, everything else is still in the average human range… for now. O'course, I'm not aiming to break my neck to find out certain things, yeah?"

"I wouldn't advise it." Harriet replied, in all seriousness, tapping her fingers lightly on the table as she considered the things he'd told her so far. "Has anything else changed that you're aware of? Any other bleed-through from one side of your physiology to the other? For instance, would you say that your demon side has been weakened in any way?"

Doyle snorted with derisive laughter at her question and sat back in his seat. "It ain't the demon that's weakening, it's the man." He confirmed with little humor. "The demon's as strong as it ever was… and yeah, there's another pretty big change." He paused for a moment, staring down into his lap as he braced himself for the final confession. The worst one of all. "I've been getting stuck."

He cheated a glance upward to gauge her reaction and once again, she maintained a fairly impressive poker face. And then a cloud of compassion floated down over her. "You mean like it was in the beginning?"

He shut his eyes for a moment as her words stirred up the vivid memories of his first change—how he'd spent hours locked in the bathroom, willing the spikes to disappear from his face, but having no idea how to get them to actually go away. It had been a rocky introduction to his demon heritage, for both of them. And, if Doyle was being honest, that experience had set the stage for all his feelings about demonhood from that point forward.

It was a curse. It was a prison. It was hell on earth. Literally.

"Something like that." Doyle replied in a strained voice. "Last few times I phased over, it's been a real struggle to change back. And when I finally do—I think I've been bringing more o' the demon along for the ride." The fear pooled in his eyes as he swallowed hard, once again. "It's getting _worse,_ Harry. And, I'm afraid one o' these days the spikey look will be the only one I've got."

Harriet shook her head adamantly even before he'd finished speaking. "No, Francis, that's not going to happen." She argued gently. "Demons with dual forms don't suddenly _lose_ one of them. Not naturally, not without cause. Is there something else you're not telling me? Something chemical? Or mystical, like the last time?"

"Doesn't feel like a spell." Doyle said dryly. "Not that I'd put it past Wolfram & Hart, but I think this started before I landed in the hospital last spring—I don't see the point in hexing me twice over, yeah?"

"There has to be an underlying reason." Harriet insisted, her curls bouncing along with her vigorous head shaking. "I'm telling you, what you're suggesting doesn't just happen."

"Just 'cause ya never heard of it, doesn't it mean it can't happen." Doyle retorted. "Ya said it yourself, there aren't a lotta studies on the subject. Maybe there are other hybrids like me who changed and got overlooked—counted in the general demon population."

Harriet sat back in her seat, looking a little defeated by his persistence that he was right. Mostly, because she had no way of arguing the point without the research to back it up. And, she'd always been a logical individual—she didn't use white lies to win arguments. Not then, and not now. "The cross-chatter between your human and demon side _is_ unusual, I'll give you that." Harriet responded, firmly but not unkindly. "But, as for the trouble you've been having phasing back and forth—I think there's a chance it could be psychological."

A sudden burst of laughter escaped his lips as he lifted his eyes to the light fixture over their heads. "So, now y'think I'm crazy?" He chortled more to himself than to her. "Ya don't know how much I wish ya were right about that, love. Prescribe me some demon Prozac and let's call it a day, yeah?"

"You're not crazy, Francis." Harriet clarified, giving him a reproachful look. "But, you do have a lot of unresolved issues. Particularly when it comes to your demon heritage. If you're anxious about the changes you've been experiencing, then it stands to reason that you may be causing some of the additional symptoms yourself, psychosomatically."

Doyle dropped his head in defeat, not necessarily disagreeing with her assessment of his psychology; he really wouldn't put it past himself to do exactly what she was suggesting. But something deep in his gut told him she was wrong. All the therapy in the world wouldn't save him from this.

"I can look into it, okay?" Harriet spoke again, her voice heavy with compassion this time. "I'll reach out to some of my colleagues, and…" She paused for a moment before proceeding with her admission. "I know where to find a pretty substantial Brachen population—they may even have some hybrids living there. If this has happened before, I'm sure they could tell me."

Doyle inhaled sharply at the thought of her reaching out to a group of his own kind—he hated thinking of them as his own kind. But they were, and they may very well have answers. He couldn't find the words to tell her he wanted her to do it, so he simply nodded instead, keeping his head bowed low.

He wanted to leave. Quickly. Before she got even more curious about his strange demon phenomena. As thankful as he was for Harriet's expertise and willingness to help, he couldn't help but feel like a lab rat under the circumstances. And like any good rat, he needed to escape the maze. He shifted in his seat, digging into his back pocket to find his wallet.

"Just lemme know what ya find out, yeah?" Doyle managed to make his voice sound almost-normal, as he pulled a few bills out of his wallet and placed them down on the table.

"Francis, I need to ask one more question." She said, reaching her hand out to place it over his and stopping his mad dash from the booth. She exuded nothing but concern this time. "This isn't the reason you and Cordelia broke up, is it?"

He froze in place and found himself swallowing hard for what must have been the hundredth time during their brief time together. "No. I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than that."

Harriet nodded at his reply, retracting her hand, releasing him from the table. "I'd just hate to see you make the same mistake twice, that's all." She explained. "I really liked Cordelia. She was good for you."

Doyle raised his brows at that, and tossed another bill on top of the ones he'd already thrown on the table. "Yeah, I liked her, too." He remarked, scooting out of the booth and shoving his wallet back into his pocket. "Take care of yourself, Harry."

He left her sitting there, and the deep feeling of disappointment began broiling inside his gut once again. She'd had no answers to give him. Which wasn't to say she wouldn't try and find answers. But, nothing she'd said had given him any reason to think he was wrong about what was happening.

And he had desperately wanted her to convince him he was wrong…

* * *

 **A/N- I just wanted to say that I love the enthusiasm for Doyle/Wesley's relationship and if I hadn't already written this chapter I may have been tempted to have him confide in Wes instead of Harry! But under the circumstances (the estrangement from Cordy, et al.) I don't think Doyle would have felt comfortable going to Wesley about something like this. Good thing Harry is basically a female Wes, right? And I thought it was a nice illustration of how far Doyle and Harry have come that he could go to her with this deep, dark secret of his.**

 **Anyway, thank you ALL for the feedback. I am so glad you're all digging this story (even the sad parts).**


	34. Happy Anniversary, Pt 1

**"Happy Anniversary," Part I**

"One desk. We're sharing?" Gunn asked, pointing to the old beat up desk in the middle of the cramped office space. He tossed the remainder of the flyers he'd been sticking on car windshields onto the shoddy wooden surface.

"Be happy there's a desk at all." Cordelia replied, yanking the dead potted plant off its hook on the ceiling and wrinkling her nose at the mulchy smell it contained. She felt her stomach turn over; a wave of nausea hit her and she was forced to brace herself so she wouldn't fall off the tiny stepstool she was standing atop. "If the last occupant of this office hadn't left all his crap here, we'd be sitting on the floor. Not exactly a confidence booster for any would-be clients."

"Yeah, well, if those flyers don't work, we won't have to worry about any would-be clients finding us. We'll be out of business and we'll just leave all this junk for the next guy." Gunn remarked, lifting the phone from the receiver and then tossing it back down. "Forget the flyers if there's no dial tone."

Wesley stuck his head up from where he'd been crawling around under the desk. "Still?" He inquired with barely veiled frustration. "I've connected every wire I could find. I fear it may be a short."

"A short _straw_." Gunn clarified. "As in, that's what we all drew when we got the boot. Why the hell shouldn't we still be running Angel Investigations, if no one else is?"

"Because we have no Angel." Wesley reminded him. "Which isn't going to stop us from running a successful business. Just wait and see."

"I'm just saying, if Doyle's gonna call us every time he has a vision, we should at least get the perk of having a fancy office with multiple desks. Not to mention the working phone." Gunn complained, and then quickly realizing what he'd said, he focused on Cordelia who had tossed the foul smelling plant into a garbage bag and was now frowning deeply at the layer of dust on top of the bookshelf. "Sorry. Didn't mean to say the D-word."

"You can say whatever meaningless words you want." She commented distractedly, dragging a finger through the dusty surface to see if she'd need a rag or a plow to remove it. Her stomach lurched again, and along with it she felt her head begin to swim. She reached out to hold onto the top of the bookshelf, but soon found the world tilting so badly that she had no other option than to tilt with it…

Right into Gunn's awaiting arms. Human as he was, the guy had great reflexes. "Whoa, easy there." He said, assisting her safely to the ground and making sure she got her feet stable beneath her. "We can't afford workman's comp, remember? Maybe you should start with the bottom shelves."

"Thanks, I haven't been feeling so—" She lifted a hand to cover her mouth as she felt her lunch creep upwards inside her esophagus, and she went racing into the small bathroom nearby, slamming the door behind her.

Gunn and Wesley exchanged an uneasy look as they could hear Cordelia lose the contents of her stomach. Gunn pointed at the closed door and lowered his voice so she couldn't hear, not that she'd hear anything over the sounds of her own retching. "Is it me, or has she been doing that a lot lately?" He observed. "I know she's taken this whole break up thing hard, but I ain't seen anyone get physically sick."

Wesley was staring worriedly at the door that Cordelia had disappeared behind. "I don't think it's the break up that's making her ill."

Gunn cocked his head at Wesley, finally following his train of thought. "You don't think…? I mean, she can't be…"

"I do, and as far as I know, she _can_ _be_." Wesley confirmed, with a heavy sigh, sitting back on his heels.

"Uh… right." Gunn agreed, moving farther away from the door and leaning on the side of the desk. "There anything we can do to, y'know, help her out?"

"Well… perhaps there's another street you can find to distribute our flyers." Wesley suggested, as he prepared to crawl back under the desk. "I do believe it's rather imperative we make this business venture work."

Gunn scooped up the remainder of the flyers and opened the front door, ready to head back out on marketing detail. "Maybe I'll hit up the old 'hood around the Hyperion. That way, anyone looking for the 'formerly of' part will find their way here instead."

"Good strategy." Wesley approved, watching Gunn leave and then dipping his head under the desk and muttering to himself as he twisted a few more wires underneath. "Aha! I do believe I've found our culprit. Our phone shall be ringing off the hook in no time!"

 _Zaaaaaap!_

"Wesley?!" Cordelia's muffled voice called through the bathroom door. "What happened to the lights?"

* * *

 _"What you don't have you don't need it now. Don't need it now. Was a beautiful day…"_

Doyle finished singing his song, and placed the microphone back on its stand in the center of the stage. The scattered applause barely registered, as Doyle made a beeline down the steps and over to the flamboyant Host who was seated at the rear bar.

"Is this a difficult concept? Were we absent the day they taught Sea Breeze in bartender school? Vodka, cranberry, _fresh_ grapefruit juice. Which requires a real live grapefruit. One you must cut and squeeze, not pour from a can." The tall green demon wearing a shiny fuchsia suit was shaking his empty glass at the beleaguered bartender. He placed the glass down with a decisive clunk, and swung around to face Doyle who had sidled up beside him. "Well, hey there, little buddy, nice song choice, tonight. But, gotta say, I disagree… what you don't have, you _definitely_ need it now. More than ever."

"What did ya see?" Doyle asked, ignoring the Host's usual repartee. "Will I be living out the rest of my pathetic existence as a spikey-faced freak, or is there a chance I can still make it to a Lakers game in the near future?"

"That's exactly why I've never enjoyed reading you." The Host said, sucking his teeth in disappointment. "For every lovely note that comes out of your mouth, there's a sour one on the inside. All that demon-hate—it's a real downer, especially for a so-called freak like me."

"Would ya cut to the chase, man?" Doyle barked in reply. "I got places to be."

"No, you really don't. Not unless you need to help your best pal with the lawyer-killing and setting girls on fire schtick." The Host rebutted with little concern, waving a hand in Doyle's direction. "But, cutting to that proverbial chase—there is a problem here. Unrelated to all the other problems you've caused yourself lately."

"And does that problem have something to do with me becoming more demon-like?" Doyle demanded impatiently.

"You're still only half demon, my species-ist friend." The Host clarified. "That will always be true."

Doyle let out a long breath of defeat, feeling like it had been physically knocked out of him by the Host's vague, but damning, declaration. He didn't need it to be spelled out any clearer. "So, that's it then?" He groaned, placing his hands on the side of the bar to brace himself. "That's you're way of telling me I'm doomed, yeah?"

"I didn't say doomed." The Host pointed out. "You're the one choosing that rather gloomy adjective."

"Ah… it's a good thing Cordy walked away when she did." Doyle lamented, keeping his head bowed low. This was his worst nightmare, and the only small blessing he could see was that Cordelia wouldn't be there to witness it happen. She wouldn't be there to pity him. And he wouldn't be there to rob her of a normal life.

"That's just hogwash. You crazy kids have always been better off together than apart." The Host countered. "Y'know, I'd hoped, for both of your sakes, you'd be spared this particular bit of misery. Okay, maybe for hers, more than yours, Mister Misery-who-doesn't-like-company. I really like that gal—a lot of spunk. Not to mention, Hot-O-Rama."

"Hate to break it to ya, pal, but I don't think ya have a shot." Doyle said bitterly, his words laced with double meaning. "Can't see her being with a guy with _your_ complexion."

The nervous bartender timidly approached the Host and placed a new drink in front of him—one that looked not nearly pink enough to be an actual Sea Breeze. The Host stared at it with a pained expression, before waving the other man away and turning his attention back to the deflated half-demon at his side.

Turning back to Doyle, the Host gripped him by the shoulder, forcing him to pay attention. "Listen here, Irish-eyes, you want my advice? Take a tip from that superstar ex of yours and learn to love yourself." He stated plainly. "If you don't stop swimming in the self-pity, you'll be going over a waterfall real soon. With a _very_ rocky bottom."

"I've never been much of a Whitney Houston fan, bud." Doyle growled, finally lifting his head to meet the Host's eyes. "And ya can't scare me. I have nothing left to lose."

The Host sighed dramatically and made a big show of rolling his eyes. "What I'm not-at-all-subtly trying to tell you is, you _do_ have something else to lose. A big something. And before you smart off at me about not being afraid of death—I assure you, that's not what I'm referring to. But you may wish it was, if you don't fix things soon."

Doyle gave the Host a withering glare, but he was admittedly curious about what other possible thing he had left to lose. If it wasn't Cordelia, his humanity or his life, then all he had left was…

Angel. And the shredded remains of his duty to the Powers That Be. Maybe what the Host was trying to hint at, was the very thing Doyle had been striving for all along. The real reason for all of this.

"The baby." Doyle whispered it aloud, without really thinking about the all-important rule of keeping the future to himself—but, hell, the Host had started it. If there was anyone Doyle could openly discuss the future with, it was someone who could actually see it.

The Host had chosen that moment to sip from his questionable looking Sea Breeze and he nearly did a spit take. "Whoa! Hold the phone—are you telling me you already know about that?! _That's_ what I've been so coyly trying to tell you without actually _telling_ you. Well, gee, this makes things easier." The Host waved his hand adamantly. "The child, who was never meant to exist—its life is on the line right now. I can't believe you've known this whole time! Which brings me to my next question—what in the H-E-double-hockey-sticks are you doing _here_ instead of doing everything you can to protect that little guy?!"

Doyle blinked rapidly at the Host, the words he was hearing finally brought a small ray of hope to the otherwise thick cloud of despair that Doyle had been enveloped in. "I didn't know… I wasn't sure there was anything else I could do." Doyle admitted. "I was beginning to think I'd already screwed everything up. That there was no hope left."

"There's that defeatist attitude I've grown to know and loathe." The Host observed. "There's still time to un-screw what currently may be screwed. But, you're not going to be able to do it sitting at this bar, or any other one, for that matter. You need to get back out there and—"

At that moment the Host had only briefly turned his attention to the short, dark-haired nebbish who had taken the stage to sing. And all it had taken was a few notes of _All By Myself_ to knock the big green guy to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Doyle dropped to the ground beside the Host and patted his face, thinking his demon acquaintance might have had a few too many Sea Breezes this evening. Although, if that were the case, it'd be pretty unusual. Doyle had been coming to Caritas for a few years now, and in all that time, he could never remember seeing the Host drunk, much less unable to stand. _Ugh, and was that vomit?_

Standing up and snapping for the bartender's attention, Doyle gestured to the owner of the establishment who was passed out on the floor. "Hey, new guy. What was in that drink ya gave him?"


	35. Happy Anniversary, Pt 2

**"Happy Anniversary," Part II**

Wesley and Gunn stood in the center of the small office, which was now much cleaner than it had been when they'd started—or, somewhat cleaner anyway. Things were certainly looking up for The _ Agency, formerly Angel Investigations.

They even had a dial tone and everything.

Cordelia sat behind the desk, putting the final touches on their brand new answering machine message. _Beeeep._

"Okay, that's done." Cordelia announced, checking off a little box on the notepad she had set before her. "Next item of business—new business cards. Which means a new logo to go with our new name. Which means… Let's just skip ahead to the _next_ next item, shall we?" She had written herself an itemized list of new business must-do's and, whether they had a name or not, she wasn't letting anything slow her down, not even—

"Cordelia, might we have a word?" Wesley requested, from his place in the center of the room. "Gunn and I… _ahem_. We have something we would like to discuss. With you."

"Uh… yeah, we do." Gunn awkwardly agreed, giving Wesley an extreme side-eye. "But I'm thinking English should start."

Cordelia's eyes bounced from one of the men standing before her to the other, as they played an unusual game of verbal hot potato, which would be amusing if it wasn't so annoying. "Any day now, Wesley." She remarked impatiently.

"Right, I will start… by telling you what a _wonderful_ job you've done with the new office." Wesley enthused, clapping his hands together and wearing a dopey grin. "Sincerely."

"Thanks?" She said questioningly, knowing without a doubt that wasn't, in fact, what Wesley wanted to be discussing with her. She turned back to Gunn with an arched brow. "Your turn."

"Yeah, alright." Gunn began, clearly unenthused to be put on the spot. "Thing is—we've both noticed you've been losing your lunch a lot lately… and breakfast, and dinner. Probably all the snacks in between, too."

"Um, what Gunn is trying to say…" Wesley jumped back in, giving Gunn a horrified look with his rather tactless presentation of the fairly delicate subject. Cordelia herself was the reigning champ when it came to thoughtless comments, but Gunn did seem to give her a run for her money from time to time. "We're concerned that... well, perhaps, maybe, you should consider the possibility that—"

"I'm pregnant."

"Well, um, yes… that would be, _ahem_ … something to consider." Wesley stammered weakly, in response to her blunt admission of the topic he'd been dancing around for the last several minutes.

Cordelia rolled her eyes as she pushed out her chair and stood up from behind the desk. "Oh, I'm way past considering. Past the peeing on a little plastic stick, too." She declared, as she shared her personal epiphany with her friends. "And now I'm all-the-way to the positively-pink-plus-sign that says I'm knocked up—two demon pregnancies in two years. Must be some kind of a record!"

"Demon pregnancy?!" Wesley echoed with dismay, and then recovered slightly as he remembered which demon she was referring to. "You are talking about Doyle, right?"

"Hold up. _Two_?" Gunn questioned, looking first at Cordelia and then at Wesley in mild horror.

"Yes, Doyle! Of course, it's Doyle's." Cordelia huffed, throwing her hands up in the air in dramatic fashion and beginning to pace behind the desk. "How many other demons do you think I've let into my bed? None—the answer is _none_! I'm not some kind of demon groupie, y'know!" She whirled toward Gunn waving a warning finger. "That Haxil Demon was never actually in my bed!"

Gunn held up his hands in surrender, having not the slightest clue what she was talking about. "Whoa...it's cool. I'm not judging." He turned to Wesley, gesturing to the anxious woman cutting a line in the carpet. "Yo, you wanna soothe the savage pregnant chick here?"

"Cordelia?" Wesley's relatively calm voice cut in, as he stepped in front of his now backpedaling counterpart. "I think you should sit down and—"

"I'm pregnant, Wesley, not an invalid!" She snapped back at him, but then promptly stopped pacing. She then yanked the desk chair back out, plopped into it with a heavy sigh and dropped her head into her hands. "What am I gonna do?"

She kept her face buried in her hands, but she didn't have to look up at the two men in the room to see them sharing another one of their now patented looks of concern.

Wesley's voice was thick with compassion as he spoke up once again "Do you plan to tell Doyle?" He asked cautiously. "That would probably be a good start…"

Her shoulders gently shuddered, indicating that she'd begun to cry beneath the cover of her hands. Seeing her distress, Gunn stepped up a little braver than before. "Listen, girl, you don't wanna tell him, then don't—me and English, we got your back." He said encouragingly. "You need a ride to a clinic or something—you got it. Or, y'know, we get one of those little cradle things, stick it in the corner. Trade off on babysitting between cases. It could work."

That caused her to lift her head, revealing her tear-streaked cheeks. And although she was still visibly weeping, a small smile played across her lips. "That's really nice of you to say." She sniffled, wiping away a few stray tears. "But… I think I should tell him. And I want to. I do. It's just…" She gratefully accepted the handkerchief Wesley now held out in offering. "I don't want to get back together with him just because of _this_."

She blew her nose loudly into the white cloth, and slumped against the surface of the desk, leaning heavily on her elbows.

"Unless I have grossly misinterpreted the subtext… you're saying you _do_ wish to get back together with Doyle." Wesley interpreted. "Is that correct?"

Wiping the last of her tears away with her sleeve, she nodded. "Of course, I wanna get back together with him." She confessed, finally giving voice to what her heart had been telling her every day since they'd been apart. "He's a good person. As loyal as they come—that's one of the reasons why I fell in love with him in the first place. I don't want him to change. I just… felt left out, I guess. Because he chose to be more loyal to Angel than to me."

"Yes, I can see why you'd feel that way." Wesley agreed, with an encouraging smile. "But I do think you're right—Doyle hasn't changed. He's still the man you love."

"And that's gotta make it a little bit easier, right?" Gunn noted. "Doyle's a standup guy. He'd do the right thing even if he wasn't crazy in love with you—which he is, by the way."

"I know." Cordelia agreed, thinking back to how Doyle had been there for her even before they were dating, when she was pregnant with some _other_ demon's baby. There was no question he'd do the right thing now. And he wouldn't just do it because it was the right thing; he'd do it because he loved her. She was sure of that.

More importantly, she wanted him to do it, because she still loved him, too.

* * *

"The world's gonna end tomorrow night, which may put a damper on your plans to take down Wolfram & Hart."

Angel squinted at the half-demon now occupying the doorway of his apartment. Doyle was leaning there, arms folded, his general demeanor not exactly matching the seriousness of his words. Surely, no one had ever been this good-humored while discussing Armageddon.

"You had a vision?" Angel asked, mustering up the slightest twinge of concern.

Doyle shifted his weight and gestured into the apartment with a questioning arch of his brow, requesting entrance. Angel said nothing. Did nothing. And yet Doyle took the silence as proper invitation, sauntering into the apartment and shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he did so. "Wasn't exactly mine, but it was _a_ vision." He kept walking until he'd made it to the center of the room, and then turned back to face Angel. "I was having a chat with the Host over at Caritas when all o' the sudden he hits the deck. Knocked out cold."

"How many Sea Breezes did he have before that happened?" Angel snarked, reluctantly shutting the front door and meandering over to where Doyle was now loitering.

"That's the same question I asked at first." Doyle explained. "Which is why I wasn't paying much attention to the dweeb who was assaulting my eardrums at that particular moment. An unfortunate thing, 'cause when the Host came to, he was pretty adamant 'bout the guy bringing about the apocalypse."

"Tomorrow night?" Angel clarified. "Why come to me?"

Doyle rolled his eyes and removed his hands from his pockets, opening them wide in bewilderment. "Why? Ya got other plans? 'Cause I'm thinking you should change 'em."

Angel shrugged, folding his arms over his chest. "What exactly did the Host say was going to happen? What did he see?"

"Nothing!" Doyle exclaimed. "Everything stopped—like time itself will cease to exist after ten o'clock tomorrow."

"Hmmppphh." Angel made a thoughtful exclamation, but didn't say much else.

"Ah, I shoulda known the obliteration of existence as we know it wouldn't impress ya. What's that compared to a trite revenge campaign against an evil law firm, yeah?" Doyle remarked dryly, receiving a dark glare in return. "Ya can't even fake it just a little, man? I get that you're in the darkest of dark places right now, but the rest of us—including those lawyers, you're so obsessed with—still live in the world. It'd be nice if ya cared enough to keep it around."

"I don't care." Angel confirmed. "Why should I care, huh? I'm never gonna be able to atone for centuries of unthinkable evil. Nothing I do will ever be enough."

"Not to turn this into a pot versus kettle sorta thing… but that defeatist attitude won't get ya anywhere." Doyle quipped. "And saving the world's a good start on the road to redemption."

Angel paced several steps away from Doyle before returning to his original position, ignoring the other man's interjection. "Darla—she had a chance. A _real_ chance, and it was taken from her. Just like that." He reminded Doyle. "Now I have to hunt her down and kill her. And then I have to burn Wolfram  & Hart to the ground. No one else seems to get that—not the others, which is why they aren't here anymore. And not you, which is why I don't know why you still are!"

Doyle stood stock still letting Angel's minor explosion blow over him. He paused only long enough to give the vampire across from him a disheartened once over. "Are ya done?" Doyle asked through narrowed eyes. "'Cause if you are, let me remind ya why I'm still here. It's 'cause whatever sliver of humanity _I've_ still got is the only one _you've_ still got—so, you'd better hope I don't get to the point where I'm willing to let the world end, or it just _might_." Doyle aimed his index finger straight at Angel's chest as he posed the important question. "Now, are ya gonna quit feeling sorry for yourself long enough to come help me, or am I just wasting my time here?"

Angel gave a curt nod, indicating that he would be able to put aside his bad attitude in order to save the world—or, in the very least, he'd be able to bring the bad attitude with him and use it to his advantage. Doyle would take what he could get.

"So, here's my thinking—the guy with the world-ending future is probably just a karaoke buff. Otherwise, he woulda stuck around to actually _hear_ about his cataclysmic future, which he didn't." Doyle explained.

"Which means you want to hit up a bunch of karaoke bars." Angel guessed. He couldn't have been any less enthusiastic if he tried, but that was a marked step up from his seething anger from only seconds earlier. "This might be your lamest attempt to connect me with humanity, yet."

Doyle snorted with a quick burst of sarcastic laughter. "Ya don't know how much I _wish_ this was a lame attempt, bud." He spoke over his shoulder as he started to head towards the front door. "But, hey, if we can't stop the world from ending, there are worse ways to spend our last night together."

"Name one." Angel grunted. Despite his hesitation, he followed Doyle out the door.

After all, if there was no world, there was no way to exact his revenge on Wolfram & Hart.

Angel did still have his priorities.

* * *

"Thanks for the beer, man." Doyle said, plunking the empty bottle down on the coffee table. "Don't beat yourself up. These things happen."

"Yeah, I guess." The man named Gene replied, not looking wholly convinced that was true. So what if the guy had nearly destroyed the world an hour earlier—it had been completely accidental. All in the name of love. Couldn't really blame a guy for that. "And thank you guys for... _y'know_. I'm uh, I'm really sorry. Again."

"Don't mention it." Doyle assured him, speaking for Angel as well, who was present, but unsurprisingly reserved during the late night drink with their latest client, if one could call him that. "It's what we do. Isn't that right, Angel?"

"Yeah." Angel said, placing his own empty bottle of beer down beside Doyle's. "I guess so."

With that, the two heroes of the night rose from their seats and made their way out of Gene's cramped and cluttered apartment. The place may, in fact, have put Doyle's old apartment to shame. Once on the street, Doyle immediately began digging through his pockets for a cigarette, which would pair nicely with the beer he'd just chugged. It would also help with the frazzled nerves he'd been ignoring for the better part of the evening—to think how close the world had come to ending tonight. Man, this job never got any easier. If it wasn't one apocalypse, it was another.

Not to mention, Doyle had found himself empathizing a little too much with this Gene guy; finding it awful hard to blame the poor heartbroken sap for what he'd done. He loved a woman enough to want to spend forever with her, and was willing to freeze a single perfect moment in time rather than let her walk away from him. Besides, how was the guy supposed to know a bunch of apocalypse-worshipping Lubber demons would hijack his genius invention and try to spread the time-freeze bubble to the entire universe?

It was all a matter of perspective, Doyle supposed. Before the moment of loss, you'll do whatever you can to keep what you have. After it's already gone, your only choice is to move on. Sometimes you can even find the silver lining in having lost whatever it was in the first place. In Gene's case, the silver lining was that he _wasn't_ responsible for ending the world—thanks to Angel and Doyle's timely intervention. In Doyle's case, the silver lining of losing Cordelia was… well, not so silver on his end, but hopefully, a little shinier on hers.

At least Doyle had the mission again. The Host had confirmed as much, and tonight—with Angel by his side, fighting the Lubber demons and disabling the time-freezing device—for the first time in a long time, Doyle felt the way he'd felt when all this had started. He felt _hopeful_. Or, as hopeful as he could feel in the face of what he'd lost and still stood to lose.

 _Hope_ that even as a demon—a way-more-than-half-demon—Doyle would find something worth living for. Watching Angel raise a kid; that would be something. Saving the world a lot; that was something, too. And if Angel got to Shanshu while Doyle was still alive to see it; well, yeah, that was definitely something. All those things still mattered to a demon as much as a man. Probably.

Heck, worst-case scenario, Doyle could probably hit up the Host for a bartending gig. Sea Breezes were pretty unappealing, but Doyle had no doubt he could make one better than the current bartender.

"Thanks again for helping out tonight." Doyle commented to the vampire silently walking at his side. He had finally found his pack of smokes and shook one out into his hand, sticking it between his lips as he continued his pocket-search, this time for a light. "Saving the world is real progress." Doyle found his lighter and briefly paused to light his cigarette; Angel had reflexively paused along with him.

"I don't get it." Angel said, observing Doyle curiously as he successfully lit the cigarette and returned the lighter to his pocket. "It doesn't have to be this way for you."

"Hey, I've tried to quit." Doyle argued, taking a drag off the cigarette and then removing it from his lips. "Don't really see the point right now—I live alone, and the only other guy in the building doesn't breathe."

Angel gave a subtle eye roll, apparently not referring to Doyle's bad habit of filling his lungs with poison. "I mean, you don't have to be like that guy. Or me." He clarified, keeping his head down and his hands firmly shoved in his pockets. "You can get Cordelia back. You can be _happy_ again."

That gave Doyle pause, and he took a moment to really study his friend, before lifting the cigarette back to his lips and taking another long drag. Just when he thought the night couldn't get any more miraculous—there it was. Angel _did_ still care.

Too bad the thing Angel still cared about was something that was impossible at this point—happiness wasn't in the cards for Doyle.

"Actually, I can't." Doyle corrected his friend. "And even if I could, I _wouldn't_. Not with what's happening to me."

The wrinkled brow look on Angel wasn't all that uncommon, but he looked far more puzzled than usual. "What's happening?"

Doyle gestured for them to start walking again, and they fell into an easy pace down the semi-lit city street. He had wanted to confide in Angel for months, but forced himself to keep his own troubles to himself. Angel's future was the only thing that mattered, so Angel's troubles came first. But now, Doyle saw the err in that strategy. Angel needed to connect, he needed to see outside himself, and the only way he was going to be able to do that was to be reminded of someone's pain other than his own. Luckily, Doyle had plenty of pain to share.

"Simply put—I think I'm losing my humanity." Doyle confessed, keeping his eyes focused on the shimmering concrete below his feet.

"That doesn't make any sense." Angel replied, clearly disbelieving of the words he'd just heard. "You just convinced me to save the world tonight—your humanity is just fine."

"Well, I'm losing my human- _ness_ , in any case." Doyle amended. "Looks aside, I've been walking around with quite a few demon traits these days. Can't shake 'em. I'm thinking they're permanent fixtures, yeah?"

"For how long?" Angel wondered, mirroring Doyle's posture as he too walked with his eyes locked to the ground in front of them.

"Longer than I care to admit." Doyle shoved the smoldering cigarette between his lips and left it there this time, thrusting his hands into his pants pockets. "And not nearly long enough until my human side is a thing o' the past."

Angel shook his head adamantly, finally cheating a glance in Doyle's direction. "I don't think it works that way, Doyle."

"How are we supposed to know how it works?" Doyle rebutted. "I was completely human for the first two decades of my life. And not for lack of opportunity, let me tell ya. One hug from my Aunt Trudy and I'd be sneezing for a week—Lord, that woman wore a lotta perfume." Taking one final drag, he pulled the cigarette out from between his lips and flicked it away into the gutter. "Now, here I am six years later and things are definitely changing again. My senses, my strength—definitely exceeding the normal human limits, man."

"No offense, but that doesn't sound like a bad thing." Angel said carefully. "You've never wanted to use the demon's strength because it meant you had to change your face—this way you wouldn't have to."

Doyle huffed at Angel's lack of understanding. Then again, maybe it wasn't that surprising coming from a vampire who always had his demon attributes, whether he was in vamp face or not. "You're assuming I'll still _have_ a human face when all's said and done." Doyle pointed out. "Which I'm not so sure I will. It's getting to be way too easy to switch into the spikes, and way too hard to get back out of 'em."

"You think it's evolution—that you can't stop it." Angel noted. "What if it's something else? What if you _can_ stop it?"

"Yeah, well, Harry's looking into it. But, I'm not terribly optimistic there's anything can be done." Doyle revealed. "It's just one of those times the deck is stacked against me—been happening my whole life."

"I'm sorry." Angel mumbled, finally believing what Doyle was saying, and realizing what that probably felt like from the other side. "You should've told me sooner."

"Why?" Doyle asked, letting a small hint of bitterness creep into his otherwise easy demeanor. "'Til tonight I wasn't sure we were still fighting on the same side, much less still considering ourselves _friends_. Hasn't really felt like that in a while, yeah?"

Angel didn't respond right away, but as they walked under the umbrella of a streetlamp, Angel slowed and finally came to a halt right before exiting the veil of false light. "Maybe we should have another drink."

The beginnings of a grin broke out on Doyle's face as he acknowledged the small, twisted olive branch Angel was extending. "Just so happens, I know a sports bar in the neighborhood."

Angel didn't smile back, but he did bob his head, indicating that Doyle should lead the way, and he would follow. No more words were necessary at that point. The two demons continued to walk side-by-side through the darkness, leaving the light of the streetlamp behind.


	36. Happy Anniversary, Pt 3

**"Happy Anniversary," Part III**

Doyle wasn't drunk, but he wasn't entirely sober either. Yet it wasn't the alcohol that had him off-balance. Cordelia was there. Somewhere in the lobby of the Hyperion. He couldn't see her at the moment, but he'd sensed her the moment he stepped through the front doors.

Angel, who had walked in behind him, gave Doyle a vaguely sympathetic look. He too could sense that they had company, and undoubtedly knew just who that company was. As a result, Angel made himself scarce, quickly disappearing into the bowels of the hotel to do whatever it was he did these days. Despite a few shared drinks, Doyle couldn't say he'd gained much in the way of insight, but it felt like something resembling progress.

A few long minutes later she appeared, exiting the bathroom door behind what used to be her desk. Doyle stood at the front counter, leaning against it in a faux-casual way, but the truth was he was bracing himself. He didn't know why she was there, he didn't know why she'd chosen _now_ of all times to be there, but there she was. The moment he laid eyes on her his heart began beating more rapidly in his chest.

God, she looked amazing. Glowing, in fact. Although, maybe a little paler than usual. Still, she was the brightest light he'd seen in ages and his entire body and soul yearned for her, just as it always had.

"Hey." She greeted him, with the faintest glimmer of a smile. He almost wanted to pinch himself to see if this was really happening. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen anything resembling a smile on her face—it had disappeared long before she herself was gone.

"Hey." He replied, drawing his brows together in puzzlement. He wasn't smiling back at her; he couldn't smile back at her. Not when every cell in his body felt like it was about to betray him. "Ah… what are ya doing here?"

She took a deep breath as she circled around the reception counter so she could join him on the front end. He followed her with his eyes, but otherwise didn't move a muscle, maintaining the seemingly nonchalant posture, when it was, in fact, anything but. "I wanna talk." She said simply, stopping several feet in front of him, and hesitating in a way that made him suspect she'd meant to come closer and then second-guessed herself. "I hope that's okay."

"I wasn't the one who wanted to stop." Doyle answered reflexively, but then caught himself. He didn't want to appear defensive, even if that was instinctively what he felt under the circumstances. "Can I get ya a drink or something?"

That was officially the lamest thing he could have offered. Due in no small part to the fact that he had no such drink to offer aside from a hidden bottle of whiskey, which he suspected she'd decline. They'd long since run out of coffee and it wasn't like either Doyle or Angel cared enough to replenish the office supplies.

"No, I'm fine." She said, gravitating past him to the plush red chair that sat several feet away from the reception counter; she balanced herself on the arm so she could gaze up at where he stood.

"The hair's nice." He said cordially, referring to her shorter, sun-streaked hairstyle he'd previously heard about from Wesley and Gunn. It _was_ nice; it suited her. "Guess that means the new business is doing well."

Shifting himself to face her, he never removed his back from up against the counter. He was failing miserably at the whole fake-casual thing. Either that, or he was doing it way too well, because she seemed a little taken aback by his overly polite conversation.

Nevertheless, she humored him. "It is. We have our own office now." She boasted. "We just solved a big case that paid _extremely_ well. Good thing Wesley's rich girlfriend has lots of other rich friends who dabble in mystical things they have no business dabbling in. And, if that wasn't great enough, we got a brand new walk-in case just this evening. He saw one of our flyers!"

She was smiling, her big, bright, beautiful smile. Not necessarily full wattage, but it was genuine. He wasn't being fed a face-saving cover story, aka the Cordelia Chase special. She seemed genuinely _proud_. Which, in turn, made him genuinely proud of her.

"I'm guessing you designed those flyers yourself, yeah?" Doyle responded, finally conjuring up a weak grin of his own as he remembered how much she enjoyed the marketing aspects of building a business. He folded his arms over his chest, and leaned back, crossing his feet at the ankles as he stood across from her. "I'm glad it's all working out. Ya deserve success—all three of ya... although, I was sure you'd be halfway to international superstardom by now instead of fighting demons."

Her smile flickered a bit; he wasn't sure what that was all about. But this time he caught a twinge of her old false bravado, as she answered. "I decided to put the international superstardom on hold a little longer. Wesley and Gunn really need my business acumen, y'know?"

"Right, well, that's real nice of ya." Doyle replied, deciding to do away with the pleasantries and just rip off the Band-Aid. If they were going to fight, he'd rather have it out than dance around like old acquaintances. And if they weren't going to fight, then he was in real trouble. "So, uh… maybe that fills our quota of small talk, yeah? Why are ya here, Cordy?"

"I guess… well, I've had time to really think things through." She began, lightly wringing her hands together in front of her. Despite her otherwise placid demeanor, Doyle could tell she was anxious. He watched as she pushed herself back up into a standing position, hovering in front of the red armchair. "I may have been a little too hard on you about the whole Angel thing. It wasn't your fault that he fired me; I'm sure you didn't want that to happen."

"No, I didn't." Doyle said guardedly. He was starting to get the feeling this conversation was about to take a wide left turn, and his palms were sweating in apprehension. "Breaking my heart, kicking me out, not returning my calls—I'd say that was more than a _little_ too hard, yeah?"

"I'm sorry for hurting you." She said kindly, which took him aback. Instead of restating her original case, as Doyle had suspected she would, Cordelia was simply _apologizing_. It was unusual, to say the least. Not that she would be apologetic, but that she would do it so simply and easily, essentially letting him off the hook for the part he'd played in their break up. And, in turn, making it so that he'd have to do the hard part this time.

"I was hurting, too—I still am." She continued; he watched her take a long shuddery breath as she lifted her soft eyes in his direction. "I miss you, Doyle. And I… I want us to try again. To be together again."

He felt like he'd been shot in the gut.

Meanwhile, she kept talking, as she took tentative steps closer to where he leaned, which only increased his emotional hemorrhaging. "You could still work here with Angel, of course. And I'll be at the new agency. It would be a new beginning for us—keeping our personal lives and professional lives separate. Just like normal people do." She smiled up at him hesitantly, stopping right in front of where he stood. Close enough to touch. "It's really kind of perfect, actually. Timing-wise. Our love story began almost exactly a year ago. Now we can start a new chapter."

It was anything but perfect timing. The timing couldn't be any worse, in fact.

He'd spent so many nights fantasizing about her coming back to him, clinging to that dream. It turned out the words she said, the tone she said them in, were far better than what his imagination had ever been able to conjure up. But, that was before. He'd long since stopped dreaming.

Now he wanted to cry, because as much as he wanted her back—of course, he _wanted_ her back—how could he knowingly be that selfish? He couldn't give her the "normal" relationship she was suggesting. Taking her back would mean saddling her with a demon. A full-blown, non-human, spikey-faced demon. Even if she willingly stayed with him, he'd never be able to take her out to public places. There was a list a mile long of things she'd miss out on, just so she could be with him… where exactly? Where would she be with him? Hidden? In the shadows? Because that's where he'd have to stay. And his Cordelia was never meant to be in the shadows. She was born for the spotlight.

Doyle wasn't crazy about that kind of life for _himself_ , but he'd manage. He'd have to, since he didn't have a choice. He was stuck inside his own skin; trapped in the prison of his own DNA. Destined to be excommunicated from the world, one way or the other. If there wasn't someone else stuck in those shadows with him, fighting to get out someday, Doyle probably wouldn't be standing upright, trying to function. He'd have already drowned. Duty was just about the only thing keeping him afloat these days.

That kind of life wasn't meant to be Cordelia's. She'd fallen into it for the time being, but she could leave at any time. She could still have a bright, shiny future of her own choosing.

As long as Doyle wasn't a part of it.

"I don't think that's such a good idea." Doyle had to force the words out of his mouth, as they were such the opposite of what he wanted to say. He dropped his overly casual pose, since it wasn't working anyway. He needed to stand up straight for this part, keep his arms folded tightly across his chest. If he didn't, he might find himself opening them and wrapping them around her at any given moment.

The change in her was immediate, as if she'd been physically struck. He couldn't ever recall seeing that much incredulity flash through her face in one solitary moment. She was shocked to the point of near speechlessness. "You… what?"

Her stunned look was frozen in place, but he could see the pain rapidly broiling beneath the surface as she processed what he had just said to her.

"I've done some thinking, too. And you were right the first time, darlin'. It'd never work." He was making excuses, using the excuses she had used, hoping that gave them more weight in her mind.

"What happened to having both a job and a personal life?" She asked in a strangled voice, her pain coming to a slow boil as the moment lengthened. Despite her state of shock, she stood her ground, which was entirely too close to him for comfort.

"Normal people get that—normal people, like _you,_ Cordy. Not me." Doyle said honestly. "You've got a good thing going, with your new job there. And I'm guessing the fame and fortune will be right behind it if ya ever want it to be. Truth is—I think we both knew this thing between us was gonna end someday. And it's already over, so we might as well leave it that way, yeah?"

Those were the hardest words he'd ever had to say, and it scared him that he managed to utter them so convincingly. He'd never been able to lie to her as well as he did right then. Meanwhile, she had come to him with her expectations high and defenses down, clearly not expecting to take fire. Now she was visibly wounded, and doing little in the way of trying to mask it. He should kick his own ass for hurting her. Isn't that what he'd always wanted to do to the other guy who'd broken her heart? Now here he was, doing the same. Doing it worse, because she had given Doyle so much of herself. She had opened up completely. And he was slamming the door in her face.

Doyle could justify his reasoning all he wanted, but on the surface it was all the same. On the surface… she'd hate him for this.

He could have, of course, told her the truth and maybe spared her some of this pain. Instead of making it seem like their relationship wasn't worth the time and effort of differing schedules, he could have just told her about his waning humanity and ever-more-present demonic nature. But, he had a very good reason for not being honest with her – it was because he knew honesty wouldn't work. His valiant, headstrong Cordelia would come to his rescue instead of walking away as she should. She would accept him, human or demon or whatever he turned out to be. And then someday, in the future, she'd regret it. One day she'd wake up and realize she'd given up any semblance of normalcy she could have had to cater to the demon she loved; and Doyle would be a miserable, miserable demon. He knew it, which is why he couldn't drag her down with him.

"I don't understand." She croaked, idly placing a hand on the center of her chest. "I thought…"

"I know ya thought you'd walk in here and have me fall right back into your arms, Princess." He said brusquely. "And I mighta done that if you'd come sooner—but, it wouldn't have made a difference in the long run. Eventually we'd end up right back here, breaking each other's hearts all over again. I'd rather stop it now, while we can both still walk away in one piece."

Lies. All of it, lies. He was already in pieces.

"So, our whole relationship was only temporary, huh?" She confirmed his devastating sentiment, swallowing hard. Her pain turned to anger in a flash. "'We'll only hurt each other.' 'You'll be better off without me.'" She spat the trite, clichéd words right back at him. "I see someone's been reading _Breakups for Dummies_. Did you leave anything out? How about 'it's not you, it's me?'"

"Yeah, that, too." Doyle laughed bitterly. It _was_ him. It was always him.

 _SMACK!_

He felt the sharp sting as Cordelia slapped him across his left cheek. He reflexively lifted a hand to the reddening flesh, his eyes watering at the unexpected bolt of pain. He raised his brows at her in silent rebuke, but he didn't have to ask why she'd done it. Nor was he going to respond in kind.

"That's bullshit, Doyle!" She shouted indignantly. "Y'know, a wise man told me that if I love you and you love me, then all that matters is if we fight on the same side—okay, so it wasn't really a wise man, it was Wesley, but he was right." She was not only arguing, but half-pleading which made her words all the more difficult to hear. "If we love each other, we should be able to make things work, regardless of the circumstances. _If_ we love each other, we shouldn't be giving up without even trying."

Well, now she was fighting dirty. Using love against him. Challenging him. Once again she was asking him to choose. To love or not to love? That was the question this time.

Doyle stared back at her long and hard before finally lifting his shoulders up and then down, in a noncommittal shrug. "I'm sorry."

Her jaw dropped then, as her eyes rapidly filled with tears. "Oh." She uttered, as she stepped backward until she nearly toppled into the red chair behind her. Doyle had to fight the urge to reach out and catch her, thankful that she was able to regain her balance on her own. Although, she didn't look entirely steady on her feet, as far as he could tell. And her head dropped forward, so he could no longer see her eyes.

God, this hurt. She might be the one reacting externally, but he felt every ounce of her pain, magnified by a thousand fold. He wanted to invite her to slap him again. Over and over again, if she wanted to. He had never hated himself more than he did at that moment. Ironically, his self-hate was exactly why he was doing this in the first place. The cycle never ended. He had far too much disgust for himself, far too much adoration for her. Which is why he hadn't exactly been lying when he said it was bound to end someday—he'd always been afraid it would. From this vantage point, he wasn't quite sure how he'd managed to be with her as long as he was without royally screwing it up.

Oh, that's right, he'd let himself think he was human. Again. Some people never learn.

He thought she would turn and run then, since she was clearly on the verge of erupting, either with anger or tears or both. Probably both. She surprised him, by standing there for an extended beat, eventually lifting her head so he could see the pools of thought that were spinning in her mind. She was considering something, very carefully and he couldn't even come close to imagining what that something might be. Perhaps, she was simply trying to gauge whether he was lying to her or not—which, he had no doubt she'd figure out the longer she kept him on the spot.

"There's something else I need to tell you." She said in a gravelly whisper; the softness of her voice might as well have been a pitchfork being rammed through his chest. She was going to win—if he stood there for one more minute, witnessing the pain he'd caused her, he'd be taking it all back, telling her he loved her, begging for her to stay with him forever. Which is why he needed to run, if she wasn't going to.

One of them had to run.

He pushed himself away from the reception desk, shuffling several steps away from her and toward the main staircase, squaring his shoulders. "You can say what ya like, but whatever it is won't change my mind, darlin'."

Cordelia's mouth closed then, and the emotions he saw in her eyes were so clouded, he couldn't possibly begin to interpret them. There had to be some anger in there, and disappointment, and plain old heartbreak, but at the moment, her expression was so foreign that he wasn't really sure if he knew the woman in front of him at all anymore.

But, he did know one thing. He'd done it. He'd won.

"I'm just… I have to go." She choked back her oncoming tears, adjusted her purse string across her shoulder, and then finally made her hasty procession toward the front door of the hotel.

As she headed away from him, he felt the air leave the room and the walls begin to push in on him. All he could see was her back, walking away from him for the second time. The worst kind of Déjà vu.

The urge to go after her was so strong that he felt himself involuntarily stepping forward, no matter how hard he tried to turn away. This thing he'd just done—severing the final cord between them—it wasn't a noble thing. And if he didn't already hate himself as much as demonly possibly, then he'd hate himself all the more.

"Happy Anniversary." Doyle mumbled to himself, before skulking up the stairs to find a bottle to drown in.

He was a demon. And this is what demons did.

First they destroyed everything and then they sat in the dark alone.

She was _definitely_ better off and eventually she'd realize that.

* * *

 **A/N - Welcome to the official halfway mark of the story!** **I'll be taking one more quick break this week. Then, I will be back to post the next 36 chapters without any further interruptions. And, believe me when I say you should hold onto your hats for the next part of our journey. This emotional rollercoaster hasn't come to a complete stop just yet...**


	37. The Thin Dead Line, Pt 1

**"The Thin Dead Line," Part I**

"Excuse me, while I go puke my guts up… again."

Cordelia abruptly rushed from the room, slamming the bathroom door closed behind her. The telltale sound of gagging could be heard on the other side as she did exactly what she'd said she would do. Gunn shook his head as he watched the now all-too-familiar scene unfold. "I don't get it. What's Doyle's problem?" He frowned deeply and crossed his arms over his chest. "I never figured him for the deadbeat dad type—not when the mom is Cordy."

Wesley closed the book he had been flipping through and crossed to the bookshelf to return it to its rightful place. He spoke to Gunn over his shoulder as he studied the spines of the books, determining where the book belonged. "From what I could gather, she didn't actually tell Doyle about the pregnancy." He clarified, relaying the mostly vague information he'd been able to glean from Cordelia herself. "Perhaps we should reserve judgment for the time being."

"You can reserve whatever you want." Gunn retorted. "I'm still judging. Nah, man, it ain't right. Sounds to me like Doyle's been drinking some of Angel's Kool-Aid. 'Cause the guy was as whipped as they come up until a few weeks ago. Would've moved mountains for that girl. Now he's just… bailing."

"With that much I agree. It is very un-Doyle-like behavior." Wesley mused, his finger stopping on the book spine he was seeking and tapping it with emphasis. "Aha! The Genoshan Demon Index—I knew I still had it here. We are one step closer to a de-oculation spell. I can feel it!"

Gunn sighed heavily, rolling his eyes at Wesley's intent focus on the new case brought in by yet another of his rich girlfriend's acquaintances. He gestured toward the locked bathroom door once again. "I don't think all this talk of exterminating demon spawn is doing her any good, bro. Seems like she wants to keep it."

"Stephanie Sharp wishes to keep the third eye?!" Wesley asked in abject horror, turning his complete attention to Gunn who was wearing a pained expression. "Oh, you mean… " He swallowed uncomfortably as he too indicated the bathroom door. "It's hardly the same thing, you know—"

The bathroom door reopened causing Wesley to shut his mouth rather abruptly without finishing his thought. Cordelia reappeared, wiping her face with a damp paper towel. "I thought pregnant women were supposed to glow." She complained, pulling her hair back away from her face. "Why is it that I currently have the complexion of Casper the friendly ghost, huh?"

"Maybe it's a demon thing." Gunn blurted, causing Cordelia's eyes to widen in dismay as she shot a troubled look in Wesley's direction.

Now it was Wesley's turn to wear the pained expression as he silently chastised Gunn with his eyes. He abandoned his search for whatever other book he'd intended to retrieve from the bookshelf. "There's no reason to think anything of the sort—Doyle himself is only half-Brachen and didn't present until he was in his twenties. The baby is predominantly human, and morning sickness is quite common in human pregnancies, as far as I know."

"Morning sickness sounds great." Cordelia quipped. "Can I get some of that instead of the morning, noon and night sickness I have?"

Sweeping around to the back of the desk, Gunn pulled out the chair for her and gestured for her to sit. "Why don't you take a load off? English can make you some of that tea you like." Gunn offered. "I'd do it, but cooking ain't in my skillset."

Wesley stepped away from the bookcase for a second time, eyeing Gunn with dismay. "Boiling water can hardly be considered..." He argued, but then saw the exhausted look on Cordelia's face as she plopped into the chair Gunn held in place for her. He cleared his throat and rapidly amended his retort. "I, of course, would be delighted to make some tea. Would you like some, Cordelia?"

"Yes, please." She said with a small but grateful smile, as she shuffled the stack of papers that had been sitting on her desk and began sorting them into separate piles. Wesley nodded agreeably and exited toward the miniscule office kitchen, leaving Gunn to hover over Cordelia as she attempted to work.

"Anything else you need?" Gunn wondered. "Bottles, diapers, someone to go knock Doyle around a bit. Whatever, just say the word."

Cordelia laughed in a short burst, pausing in her paper collating. "Okay, first of all, I won't be needing any bottles or diapers until the baby actually comes, which will be about six months from now. So, you can cross the trip to Babies-R-Us off the to-do list for the time being. Second of all, I'm sure some demon will knock Doyle around, which'll save you the trouble." She looked up at Gunn with narrowed eyes. "Why are you so gung-ho about this baby thing anyway? This isn't you overcompensating because of some mistake from your past, is it?"

"Hell, no. That ain't me." Gunn said with veiled annoyance. "But, maybe you're half-right. My dad ditched out on my mama before Alonna was born. And I've had way too many friends who've been there… I know it's not the same as having Doyle around, but I do think Uncle Gunn has a nice ring to it."

"You are just full of surprises." Cordelia noted, with her initially skeptical grin growing ever more genuine, but then her face clouded over with bemusement. "But, for the record, 'Uncle Gunn' has a terrible ring to it."

Gunn moved over to the corner, gesturing to the big empty space. "Hey, you don't even need to waste any money buying baby furniture." He went on with enthusiasm. "I spent years building weapons—really honed my carpentry skills on those wooden stakes. I bet I could build a crib. I mean… as long as I have six months to figure out how to do it."

"Why Charles Gunn, am I hearing right? Are you turning over a new leaf?" The voice came from the slim blonde who was standing in the doorway, apparently having overheard the tail end of their conversation.

As Gunn spun in her direction, his face lit up. "Annie?! What's up, girl? I haven't seen you in a minute. Come here!" Gunn strode across the floor to grasp the new arrival in a warm hug. "What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"Well, I was looking for a little help and told I could find it here. But, it sounds like you might have your hands full these days." She said gesturing to the corner, where Gunn had just been building an imaginary baby crib. "Congratulations."

Gunn gave her a confused look and then turned back to Cordelia who was smiling awkwardly at the desk behind him. "Oh, no, you've got the wrong idea." He explained, pointing to Cordelia and then to himself and shaking his head slowly. "I'm not the daddy—we're just friends. Cordelia Chase, meet Anne Steele."

Anne turned her attention to Cordelia smiling warmly. "You're lucky to have a friend like Gunn—he's one of the good ones."

"I think I'm slowly starting to find that out." Cordelia agreed, slowly pushing herself up from behind the desk. "You said you needed some help? Well, it just so happens, that's what we do here at The—" _Cough. Cough._ "—Agency, formerly Angel Investigations. So, what's the problem?"

* * *

Cordelia paused to sip from her mug of hot tea, and then placed it aside to scribble furiously on the note-pad in front of her. Anne continued to explain the recent issue that had been relayed to her by the kids at East Hills Teen Center. Cops beating on kids, without provocation or cause. It might not be the first time it's happened, but from what Anne was describing, it was way worse than usual. And way more deadly.

So far nothing Cordelia had written down seemed terribly helpful under the circumstances. They were used to fighting demons, and occasionally lawyers; fighting the cops—the supposed good guys—that was an entirely new deal. And one that appeared rather daunting, considering that cops walked around with not only the law on their side, but also loaded weapons.

 _Kate._

That was the last thing Cordelia had written at the bottom of the page. As in Detective Kate Lockley—the cop who used to be Angel's contact within the force, but had since turned her back on him along with all other supernatural things. Understandable considering her father had been killed by vampires. Cordelia had never been close to Kate, but she wondered if that could change now. After all, Kate knew that Cordelia was human, and the fact that she was no longer working with Angel could only be a check in the pro column.

Anne sat across from Cordelia, clasping a mug of hot tea between her palms. "Do you think there's anything you can do?"

"Ain't gonna lie—overzealous cops are a little out of our wheelhouse, but consider us on the case." Gunn answered from his perch on the side of the desk.

Wesley sat to Cordelia's left, having pulled a second chair up behind the desk. The visible creases in his forehead indicated he was deep in thought. "This is a far cry from the demon spawn we're attempting to remove from a teenage girl's skull—somehow that seems far less disturbing."

A brief look of horror crossed Anne's face as she registered Wesley's odd declaration. "You guys are in a really interesting line of work." She noted, placing the mug down on the edge of the desk. "I need to be getting back to the shelter. With all that's been going on—those kids need me now more than ever." Her eyes fell on one of their business flyers that was now sitting underneath her mug. "It says you were 'formerly Angel Investigations.' That's the vampire, Angel, right? And his partner?"

"That's correct." Wesley spoke up, surprise etched into his features. "You know of them?"

"They tried to help me a few weeks ago." She explained. "Well, actually, I'm pretty sure Angel was just trying to screw over some law firm... but, Doyle, he was nice."

Cordelia's head shot up reflexively as she heard his name, especially considering the tone of voice it was spoken in. There was nice and then there was _nice_. And Cordelia was skilled enough at reading people—particularly other women—to know the difference. Her stomach turned over for the umpteenth time that day, but she didn't have the baby to blame this time. " _How_ nice?"

Anne tilted her head in Cordelia's direction, catching the hint of bitterness attached to those words, but she didn't have a chance to respond as Gunn jumped up from where he was seated and made an obvious attempt to diffuse the situation. "Hey, why don't I go with you? It's not safe for you to be out there alone—and maybe I can get more details straight from the kids."

"Yeah… that sounds like a good idea." Anne agreed, shifting her eyes away from Cordelia and giving Gunn a thankful smile. She nodded apprehensively to Wesley and Cordelia as she followed Gunn out the front door and into the evening beyond.

Cordelia sat frozen in place, trying not to let the surge of irrational jealousy get the best of her, but her mind couldn't help but put some of the more glaring pieces of the puzzle together. A few weeks ago, Doyle had still been filling Cordelia's answering machine with messages and leaving birthday cupcakes on her front door. Enter Anne—an attractive young woman who runs a homeless shelter for teen runaways— and no more messages, no more cupcakes, no more desire for a reunion. Suddenly, Doyle's change of heart made a lot more sense.

She felt the familiar bite of tears and she immediately stood up, pushing all thoughts of Doyle out of her mind. She was jumping to ridiculous conclusions, and whether they were true or not didn't matter. Whether he'd rejected her because he'd met someone new, or for any other reason, was inconsequential. The point was, he didn't want her anymore.

And she had a case to solve.

"Kate!" She announced in an overly cheerful voice, as her eyes settled back down on the page full of notes she'd written. "I'm gonna go talk to her. See if she knows anything that can help us." She clarified, yanking her purse off the side of her chair and making a beeline for the front door before she could sit and think any further about things she didn't want to be thinking.

"Oh, yes, that's a brilliant idea." Wesley agreed, standing from his chair at a delayed pace, still seemingly distracted by other thoughts. "I should come with you—that would be safest."

"Wesley." Cordelia said in a no-nonsense voice as she reached the front door, and paused to glance back at him. "I'm going to the police station. There aren't many places safer than that. You stay here and work on that third-eye thingamajig, okay? We might as well solve two cases at once, and that one is the one that'll be paying the bills."

He nodded in agreement, and she took off, focusing herself on the case and nothing but the case. So help her God.

* * *

Doyle found Angel sitting alone behind his desk, feet propped up in front of him, crossed at the ankle. His hands were folded in his lap and his mind was a thousand miles away. As Doyle leaned in the vampire's office doorway, folding his own arms across his chest, his eye caught a familiar tagline half-hidden under Angel's feet.

 _We help the helpless._

It was one of the flyers Cordelia had created for her new business. Wasn't it the _hopeless_ they were supposed to be helping? Had she changed it purposely or was it merely a typo?

Shaking away the menial distraction, Doyle forced himself to focus on the actual reason he'd come looking for Angel. "I was thinking I'd head over to Caritas for a drink and a song. You up for it?"

It was posed as a casual invitation, but the truth was, Doyle _needed_ Angel to accompany him. Ever since Doyle had received confirmation from the Host that the baby was still in play, he was desperate to figure out exactly what he had to do in order to help things along. The mission was Doyle's only lifeline at this point—which made it all the more frustrating that it appeared to be at a complete and utter stall. Angel was still focused almost solely on the activities of Wolfram  & Hart, while Darla herself seemed forgotten. Off the map, so to speak—and really, who could blame her, considering she'd so recently been set on fire?

"Didn't you have enough karaoke last week?" Angel asked distractedly, not moving a muscle aside from his lips.

"One can never have too much karaoke, man." Doyle assured him in a much more jovial voice than he felt. "Besides what else's going on that's so much better, huh? By the way, that was rhetorical. There's nothing better than karaoke."

Angel's only response was an extended blink. He then craned his neck slowly in Doyle's direction, a movement that looked more than a little animalistic. "I need to patrol."

Raising his eyebrows to their full extent, Doyle observed Angel with an obviously skeptical expression. "And this patrolling—will it take place in areas not directly adjacent to the Wolfram & Hart home office or any of their employees' places of residence?"

Shifting in his chair, Angel retracted his legs from the desktop and in one fluid motion rose to his feet. He continued on his procession through the office with Doyle following at his heels. "I'll come with ya." Doyle offered. If he wasn't going to get any answers tonight, then at least he could continue to mend the bridge between he and Angel. Nothing like a night of skulking through dark alleyways to bring a couple of demons closer together.

"It's better if I go alone." Angel replied over his shoulder without slowing down or pausing to discuss the issue further.

"How unlike every other night." Doyle muttered in reply, finally giving up the bid to patrol with Angel and hanging back by the reception counter. "I don't know why I thought saving the world together last week was gonna change things 'round here."

Angel stopped walking then, just a few paces away from the front door. "There's a message for you on the machine." With those parting words, Angel disappeared into the dark night beyond the Hyperion's front doors.

Nope. Nothing had changed.

Sauntering back around the reception counter, Doyle headed toward the desk that formerly belonged to Cordelia. He dumped himself into the chair and pressed the button on the machine to relay the message back to him.

 _"_ _Hi Francis, it's me. Please call me when you have a chance. You know what it's about." Beeeep._

Harriet. Calling him back with answers. Or, with more questions. His fingers dialed the familiar pattern of numbers and he heard the ringing on the other end of the line as he settled back into the desk chair.

"Hello?" A man's voice answered, and Doyle sat up a little straighter, mentally re-checking the number he'd just dialed. He was fairly certain he'd dialed correctly. Which meant he was probably now speaking to the guy currently sleeping with his ex-wife.

"Hi. Is, ah… Harriet there?" Doyle spoke uncertainly into the phone. It wasn't like he was jealous, but there was a natural physiological reaction that came when thinking about someone he used to be intimate with being intimate with someone else. And it wasn't what one would call a good one.

"Sure. May I ask who's calling?" The male voice asked politely from the other end of the phone line.

 _No, you may not_ , Doyle thought to himself. Just who the hell did this guy think he was, screening her calls? Harriet didn't like that sort of thing. Doyle was tempted to school the guy on that front, but he caught himself—old habits died hard, apparently. It was none of Doyle's business how Harry's new boyfriend answered the phone. So, he cleared his throat and did his best to sound amicable. "You can tell 'er it's Doyle."

"Hang on." The man said. Doyle could hear some shuffling in the background and the dull murmur of voices in the distance. A few moments later it was Harriet's voice who greeted him from the other end.

"Francis." She said in a warm tone. "I'm glad you called."

"Listen, if you're busy I can call back." Doyle replied, imagining the guy who'd answered the phone lingering in the background, listening to Doyle's personal business. He really hoped she hadn't shared his demon problems with that guy, whoever he was.

"No, it's fine. Michael has a huge stack of term papers he's supposed to be grading anyway. We have time to talk." She assured him.

"He know about me?" Doyle asked with apprehension.

"In what sense?" Her question was more of a statement, and she chuckled at his rather dramatic choice of phrasing. "He knows you're my ex-husband and that we keep in contact." She clarified. "He doesn't know you're half demon, or that I've been doing research for you. And he's not listening right now, if that's what you're worried about."

Doyle let out a deep breath. He wasn't sure why it even mattered if some guy he'd never met knew his secret. But it did matter. It was hard enough having Harriet know the details of his situation. "So… what did ya find out?"

"Well, nothing actually." She responded with an enthusiasm that conflicted with her words. "I spoke to several colleagues, I reached out to all my Brachen contacts—there's no other recorded instance of the symptoms you've described within the half-human-Brachen population. Which I think is a good thing, Francis. The general consensus is that there is an underlying cause at work here—either mystical or biological. If it's the former, I'm afraid I won't be of much help, but if it's the latter—"

Doyle sat hunched over the desk listening to Harriet explain a whole lot of nothing in far too many words. "What about other types o' demons? Maybe dear ol' dad wasn't just Brachen, yeah?"

"I thought of that." Harriet agreed calmly. "But that's not something we can determine without further testing."

" _Testing_?" Doyle choked on the vile word. He'd always hated doctors, even before he'd found out he couldn't and shouldn't be seen by any. Not unless he wanted to become a lab specimen, poked and prodded, trapped in a cage. Which is suspiciously what it sounded like Harriet wanted to do. "No way. I already look like a giant pin-cushion half the time, I'm not interested in actually becoming one!"

The long, heavy sigh he heard on the other end of the phone probably accompanied an eye roll, courtesy of his ex-wife. "Francis, please be reasonable. You want answers—a few simple tests might give you those answers. Or, in the very least, we'll be able to rule some things out."

"I said no." He repeated stubbornly. "I'm not some case ya get to study, Harriet. So, you can stop fantasizing about me being the topic of your next dissertation!"

"You can stop it right there!" Harriet argued in response, finally trading her placidity for a tone more closely matching his own. "You know I'd never do that! You came to me for help, and that's what I'm trying to do. But, surprise, surprise, you're too damn stubborn to let me do it the right way. Instead, you'd rather go on believing the worst about yourself and drinking all the pain away—isn't that right?"

Damn, if that wasn't 100% accurate. Time goes by, years pass, and Harriet still knows him better than most.

"Really makes ya miss the good ol' days, yeah?" He grumbled bitterly into the receiver, still having no intention of giving in. "Just where am I supposed to go for these tests of yours anyway? I can't go in all 'hey doc, nice to meet ya, just ignore the spikes there.' Trust me when I say, that won't go over well."

"I'm not asking you to do that." Harriet assured him from the other end of the line. "I have a colleague I'd like you to see—Dr. Stephen Golding. He's a medical doctor who specializes in demonic biology. He can run the tests and I assure you, he'll be very discrete. He has an office at USC Medical Center, not that far from your place."

"USC has a demon department now?" Doyle asked incredulously.

"His work is under the radar, as is mine." Harriet patiently explained. "I can make you an appointment, all you have to do is say you'll be there."

Doyle felt the pout that had settled onto his face—a pout of defeat. He was going to say yes to this ridiculous charade, simply because he was too exhausted to argue the point any further. The quicker he said yes, the quicker he could dig out his trusty old bottle and spend the rest of the night living down to the low expectations she'd laid out for him. Which, to be honest, was probably what he would've done anyway, now that Angel had left the building. "Yeah… alright."

"Good. I'll set it up." Harriet replied, and he could hear the smile of victory in her voice. "You're making the right choice here, Francis. And don't forget… you came to me. So, as much as you think you'd prefer to live in denial, at least some part of you wants real answers. This will help you get them."

"I'll talk to ya soon, Harry." He said thickly, gently placing the receiver back down in its cradle and remaining, unmoving in the desk chair.

Maybe he did want answers, but he was terrified they wouldn't be the ones he wanted to hear.


	38. The Thin Dead Line, Pt 2

**"The Thin Dead Line," Part II**

Cordelia stomped through the Los Angeles Police Station where Kate's office was located, keeping her head down and wondering if this was actually as good idea as she'd originally thought. It might not necessarily be as safe as she insisted it was, not when Cordelia was there to accuse a bunch of cops of misconduct. Granted, Kate was a good cop—not the sort to be out hassling kids for no reason, but that didn't mean she'd be willing to turn on any of her fellow cops. Not for someone she hardly knew.

If it had been Angel coming to see her—well, he probably wouldn't have fared much better with Kate these days. In fact, Cordelia wondered if it would hurt her own chances of getting Kate's help, having worked for Angel in the past. Cordelia would probably have to lay the disgruntled former-employee schtick on pretty thick. Which shouldn't be a problem, since that was exactly what Cordelia was. Disgruntled. And former.

Then again…

"You know him?" A male voice asked, as Cordelia rounded the bend toward Kate's cubicle. It sounded more than a little familiar.

"Well, enough to be at his funeral six months ago." She heard Kate reply.

Cordelia came up short as Kate's desk came into view. Hovering over the compact, no-nonsense blonde was her former employer himself. Cordelia would know that posture anywhere, not to mention the black on black ensemble he was so fond of.

"You wanna take a ride?" Angel asked the blonde seated behind the desk, both sets of eyes firmly planted on the computer screen in front of them.

That was until Angel sensed Cordelia's presence and his eyes lifted toward her. She knew she was standing their gaping dumbly at him—her face frozen in a reflexive mask of fury.

"Cordelia." He said and she was half-tempted to run right up to him and slap her name from his lips. "What are you doing here?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I came to talk to Kate." She spit back, taking a few steps closer. The last thing she was going to do was retreat—not when she suspected that was what Angel expected her to do—what he wanted her to do. Plus, if she really _was_ going to speak to Kate, it would be better if not as many listening ears could overhear. "I'm working on a case. Y'know, for the new agency that Wesley, Gunn and I started. The one you have no part of— _the one that still helps people_."

Kate's left eyebrow arched upward at Cordelia's mini-tirade, but she remained silent.

"What's the case?" Angel asked.

"I'm not telling you." Cordelia fired back. "You're the competition!"

Angel's reaction was his typical non-reaction, but he stepped forward too, waving Cordelia off with a dismissive hand gesture, which only succeeded in infuriating her more. "I know what it is—the violent cops, hassling street kids—you should drop it. It's too dangerous."

"How dare you?!" Cordelia demanded in disbelief. "What gives you the right?"

"Cordelia, I'm warning you—" Angel continued.

She cut him off, waving her hands wildly in the air in utter frustration. "No, Angel. You don't get to do that. You don't get to _warn_ me about anything anymore!" She shook her head adamantly, her short bob fluffing outward with her frantic movements. "This is our case, and we're not going to _drop_ _it_ just because you've decided to finally take an interest. What about all those other cases you turned your back on, huh? The dragon, for instance. I didn't see you worrying about our safety then!"

With that, she spun on her heel and stomped back in the direction she'd come from, leaving a speechless vampire in her wake.

Kate had watched the verbal altercation with veiled interest, turning to Angel as Cordelia stormed from the building. "You should probably go after her."

"No." He said simply, shoving his hands in his pockets, giving no indication he was nearly as effected by that encounter as she had so obviously been. "Let's just worry about stopping all this."

"Was there really a dragon?" Kate wondered, standing up from her seat, and yanking her jacket off the back of her chair.

"Not everything that breathes fire is a dragon." Angel responded blankly. "C'mon."

"Wait. Where are we going exactly?" Kate asked, even as she fell into line behind Angel.

He flashed her the badge he'd torn from the chest of a cop who'd supposedly been dead for six months. "To see how Officer Peter Harkes made it out of his grave…. And figure out how to put him back in it. Permanently."

* * *

Cordelia weaved her way through the overcrowded teen center, keeping her eyes peeled for Gunn. He had to be around here somewhere. And, boy oh boy, she couldn't _wait_ to tell him who else was working this new case of theirs! Whipping around a corner, she nearly tackled the willowy blonde she'd met earlier that evening.

"Anne!" Cordelia said with a start, holding her hand to her chest as she caught her breath. "Sorry, I… well, clumsy me. Is Gunn still here?"

"You just missed him." Anne responded, her arms were overloaded with blankets, which she shifted uncomfortably as she spoke.

"Here, let me take some of those." Cordelia offered, removing the top portion of Anne's pile.

"Thanks." Anne said as she continued down the hallway, talking to Cordelia over her shoulder. "He and some of his crew went out there to get evidence—they want to get video footage of the cops hassling them."

"Hassling?" Cordelia echoed warily. "Is that what we're calling the brutalizing and killing now? Wow, that is just…" A brightly colored blur caught her eye through one of the doorways and she focused on the young dark-haired girl who was wearing a very familiar— "Hey, I have that same shirt." Cordelia blurted, even as she felt the sinking feeling in her stomach.

Anne had entered the next room down the hallway, and Cordelia scrambled to keep up. Once inside that room, she spied another familiar article of clothing, a powder blue cardigan. Her chest constricted even tighter as coincidence turned into confirmation. She almost dropped the pile of blankets she was clutching. Meanwhile, Anne was handing out the blankets, one by one. When she turned back to Cordelia, she paused for a moment, perhaps noticing the rapid change in Cordelia's complexion.

"Are you okay?" Anne wondered, her face filled with concern. She shifted the few blankets she was still carrying under one arm and reached out to grasp Cordelia with the other one.

Cordelia gave a subtle nod to the blue cardigan adorning a pudgy adolescent. "Those clothes—Doyle brought them here, didn't he?" She heard herself ask, feeling rather detached from her own vocal chords. "I can't believe he's using piles of designer things to woo other women. _My_ designer things!"

Anne's brows knit together with confusion as she glanced over at the sweater Cordelia was indicating. A look of understanding began to dawn, but not all of the confusion left her face. "Angel brought that stuff over." She clarified. "Doyle wasn't wooing anyone—he's married, isn't he?"

"He told you he's still married?" Cordelia asked, the look of confusion that had previously been worn by Anne now crept onto her own face. And suddenly she felt incredibly foolish. "You know what… never mind. Do you have a phone I can use? I think it's time for me to call in reinforcements, before Gunn gets himself killed out there."

"You can use the phone in my office." Anne said, taking the pile of blankets back from Cordelia. "Go straight down this hallway. Last door on the left."

"Thanks." Cordelia replied, spinning back around and navigating to the office per Anne's instructions. Once inside, Cordelia made a beeline to the phone on the desk, but before she'd gotten there another item caught her eye—Doyle's bookcase. And sitting beside it was Doyle's dresser, one of his lamps and his beat up old armchair. She just couldn't escape the reminders of him. The office was crawling with his things—and the entire place was _wearing_ Cordelia's things. Oh, if she ever got her hands on Angel…

She shook her head, lifting the phone off its receiver and plunking in the number to their office. Wesley picked up on the first ring. "The... _ahem_ … Agency. We help the helpless."

"Wesley." Cordelia scolded. "What have I told you about picking up on the first ring? It sounds desperate. Like we don't have any cases."

"Um… right." Wesley answered, and she imagined him scrambling to sit upright behind the desk, as if she could see him slouching through the phone and would chastise him for that as well. "But, we do have cases. Two, in fact, and I think I've just cracked one of them. It seems—"

"Save it." Cordelia cut in. "The third eye's gonna have to wait. Right now, we've got a lone ranger out on the city streets, trying to get his skull cracked open so he can videotape it!"

"Excuse me?" Wesley sputtered on the other end of the phone. "Is that what Gunn is planning to do?!"

"Well, I don't think the skull-cracking is actually part of his stupid plan." Cordelia allowed. "But, that's what's probably going to happen. How fast do you think you can make it over to the teen center?"

* * *

As more and more kids streamed into the East Hills Teen Center scared out of their wits, Cordelia realized she couldn't wait for Wesley to show up. She imagined Gunn out there, well, _gunning_ for trouble. He was really good at pissing people off when they weren't readily homicidal, which meant he was doomed.

This was bad. So, so bad.

Not only did Cordelia not want to see anything bad happen to Gunn, but she definitely didn't want it to happen when it would prove Angel right. Also, she liked Gunn—he was a nice guy once you got past the brusque and macho exterior. He wanted to build her baby furniture and be called Uncle Gunn—hmm, about that last one…

In any case, he certainly didn't deserve to get his face kicked in by a bunch of out-of-control, bloodthirsty cops.

Cordelia made her way out the front door of the teen center, pushing in pretty much the opposite direction as all the kids who were clamoring to be inside. From what she could tell, the place was rapidly getting to full occupancy, if it wasn't already there. Anne would have her hands full for the rest of the night—Cordelia made a mental note to come back and help the other woman once she was done saving Gunn's ass. It was the least she could do under the circumstances. Now that she knew Anne wasn't Doyle's new girlfriend or anything.

Out on the street it was like a war zone, Cordelia could see a group of kids racing toward the center, cops hot on their tails. She was tempted to wait and usher the kids to safety, but she had to run away or she risked being caught up in the fray, missing her chance to get to Gunn. He couldn't be that far away—from what Anne told her, she should be able to catch up with him pretty quickly if she kept moving at a rapid pace and didn't get sidetracked by any of the chaos around her. She really, _really_ hoped she could catch up to him before the cops did.

"Stupid, stupid. This is so _extremely_ stupid." She muttered to herself in a sing-song voice as she kept moving. After booking it for several blocks, Cordelia found herself out of breath and was forced to slow down. She hunched over, hands on knees, gasping for air. And then she heard it.

"Officer, I'd just like to know if we're being arrested."

Gunn's voice. It was close. She picked up her pace once again, her lungs burning as she veered down the next street and that's when she saw the cluster of young men. A Gunn-shaped person was at the center of the group, nose to nose with a cop.

"Turn around and face the wall. Now." The cop ordered, shoving Gunn, forcing him to turn toward the brick faced wall nearby. His hand hovered over his nightstick, and he looked like he would be all too happy to pull it out and use it.

"Hey, I'm not trying to argue with you, but I'd like to know what we did wrong." Gunn said in a fairly diplomatic voice. For Gunn. "Y'know, what law we broke? Because if we broke one, I think we should know what it was so we don't make the same mistake twice."

The cop took out the nightstick and held it up menacingly—aimed directly at Gunn's head. "I'm not gonna say it again."

"No!" Cordelia shouted from behind them, propelling herself forward out of the shadows. "Please, Officer, don't hurt him! He's a friend of mine and—"

 _BLAM!_

Cordelia saw a bright flash of light and simultaneously felt herself go deaf. But it didn't occur to her what had happened right away.

Everything started moving in slow motion, as she identified the smoking gun in the cop's hand. He had fired. Someone had been shot!

Her head swung toward Gunn, assuming he had been the victim, but he was unharmed, staring right back at her… looking utterly horrified. Reflexively, she lifted her hands to her belly and that's when she felt the wetness. She looked down to see a red stain rapidly forming on the front of her shirt. _Someone_ wasn't shot. _She_ was shot.

And her shirt was completely ruined. A stain like this would never come out. Not to mention the hole.

Time went back to normal speed again as Gunn screamed her name right before tackling the cop to the ground. Meanwhile, Cordelia felt herself stumbling backward. Backward. Backward. And then she landed on the cold, hard ground, which was the first jolt of pain she actually felt.

"Cordelia!" Gunn was calling her name again, and she felt one of his hands slip under her head to support it, and the other pushing down on her bleeding abdomen. Pressure. Yes, pressure—that's what you need to do when someone was bleeding. When someone was dying. "Cordelia, can you hear me?!"

"Gunn." She heard a voice that sounded like her own, and she felt herself being pulled closer to a large, warm body. "He has a gun."

"Yeah, I know." Gunn's voice sounded muffled. Far away, but also very close. She felt her body leave the ground. "Just hang in there, girl. I'm gonna get you outta here."

There was another loud blast in the background—Cordelia could hear it this time. Someone else had been shot.

"I shot him!" A voice she didn't recognize was shouting. "I shot a cop!"

"Not a lotta choice." Gunn's voice, still close. Still muffled. She felt like she was floating. "Come on—we gotta get her to a hospital."

"Look at him! He's dead." The other voice said.

Was he talking about her? Was she dead? No, that was silly. She couldn't have heard him say that if she was dead. Dead people didn't have ears. Or did they? She'd have to ask Dennis about that.

"Don't look _that_ dead!" Gunn's voice again, and she felt herself bounce up and down… as he ran. She opened her eyes, and saw the world vibrating by in a blur. Gunn was holding her—he was running. And for just one moment, she felt complete and total clarity.

She was going to die.


	39. The Thin Dead Line, Pt 3

**"The Thin Dead Line," Part III**

 _Beep. Beep. Beep._

Her heart monitor was beeping steadily.

Doyle lifted his hand to his chest to feel his own heart beat which was not nearly as calm and steady. Rather, it was thumping erratically in his chest, threatening to burst right out and onto the floor. Partly, because he'd just made a mad-dash from the Hyperion to the hospital and then raced through the hospital to find her room; and the other part because he hadn't known what he'd find once he got there.

At least he'd found her alive. From the looks of things, that hadn't been a guarantee.

And he found her with two men at her side, both of whom looked rather surprised to see him standing in the doorway, bracing himself against the doorframe as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Doyle." Wesley said, standing up from his chair, while Gunn remained seated; he was holding her hand. "How did you get here so quickly? I left that message barely five minutes ago."

"I didn't get your message." Doyle replied absently, not able to pull his eyes away from the patient in the bed. She was hooked up to an IV. Heavily bandaged all around her abdomen. Her eyes were closed and her complexion was paler than he'd ever seen it before. Deathly pale.

"Well, then how—" Wesley began, but he shut his mouth as he spotted something over Doyle's shoulder. Someone.

Angel was there. Doyle wasn't sure when he'd gotten there, or even how he knew to be there, but he sensed the vampire behind him, lingering in the hallway. It had been Angel who called Doyle—telling him that he needed to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.

Telling him that Cordelia was there.

He was thankful he'd been conscious enough to hear the phone ring; and since it rang so rarely, he had opted to answer it. Never had he expected to hear that type of panic in Angel's voice. A panic he adopted for himself as he raced to be at Cordelia's side.

Doyle was moving forward then, out of the doorway and toward her bedside. Only then did Gunn relinquish her hand and rise from the chair he'd been occupying. Both he and Wesley stepped away, hovering near the foot of her bed as Doyle shifted into the place formerly occupied by them, scooting the chair even closer as he perched on the edge of it. He leaned over Cordelia, tenderly running his fingertips across her pallid cheek. Feeling the cold, clamminess that clung to her skin.

His hands continued to run over her, brushing her hair back from her face, taking in every detail of her. Never in all the time he'd known her had she looked this fragile—this broken. Not even when she'd been dead on her bathroom floor after Faith had nearly drowned her had she looked like this. Back then, all it took was his breath in her lungs and she was fixed. The color returned to her cheeks, the light returned to her eyes. This time it wouldn't be that simple—she had lost so much precious blood. She was pumped full of morphine. She was lucky to be alive.

 _Lucky_.

He noticed the slender chain around her neck and he lifted it to see what lay there, hidden beneath her hospital gown. Frankly, he was surprised whatever it was hadn't been ripped off her when she'd been rushed into the E.R., but then as his eyes fell upon the object he knew why they hadn't taken it from her. Even doctors could be superstitious—and removing a good luck charm would surely be bad luck.

It wasn't just any good luck charm that dangled across Doyle's palm. It was the four-leaf clover embedded within its glass heart—the gift he'd chosen for her. He had left it under her tree before Christmas, assuming she wouldn't even open it. Apparently, she'd decided not only to keep it, but to actually wear it. Even now, after he'd told her she was right to walk away—after he'd _sent_ her away.

Maybe she just liked the necklace. Or maybe it was something else…

She was a far cry from the girl he'd first met, hiding behind her impenetrable armor, lashing out at anything that tried to get too close. This Cordelia— _his_ Cordelia—had opened up. She was capable of love, and compassion, and _forgiveness_. She'd relied on literal walls to keep him away after their breakup, probably because she'd long since let him inside all the emotional ones. He'd been the one to build a wall this time. He was the one keeping her out.

Regrets, he had more than a few.

He couldn't trust his voice to speak out loud, but he needed to know why she had ended up in this bed. He needed to know why he had almost lost her.

But, more than that, he wanted her back. _God, how he wanted her back._

"How'd this happen?" Doyle asked in a ragged voice, barely audible to the other occupants of the room, his eyes never leaving her face. He slipped his hand into hers, squeezing gently and silently urging for her to squeeze back. It wasn't enough to see her steady vital signs, he needed her to show him she was still in there. He needed to know she would come back to him.

Doyle had expected Wesley to provide the answers, but it was Gunn who spoke instead. "She was protecting me. There was this cop and he—" Gunn swallowed hard, and Doyle could see he was choked up. "Cordy told him to back off and he just shot her. No warning or nothing."

"Protecting you, huh?" Doyle remarked bitterly, a surge of anger flowed through his veins as he imagined _his_ Cordy, trying to protect a big, strong guy like Gunn, who was more than capable of taking care of himself. "You've gotten real close nowadays, haven't ya?"

"I don't know what you're implying, D." Gunn argued defensively.

"Oh, I think ya do." Doyle growled back, finally taking his eyes off Cordelia and aiming them fiercely at Gunn. "Weren't you the one who told me I was putting her in danger by taking her out there? Well, last I checked, I didn't nearly get 'er killed protecting _me_!"

"You are way out of line!" Gunn roared back at Doyle. "I ain't the one who turned my back on her. If you knew what was really going on—"

"Gunn! Doyle!" Wesley raised his voice only enough to be heard over their shouting. He had stepped forward and raised a silencing hand toward each of them. "This is not doing any good. We're all here because we care about Cordelia—now we should all keep our heads for her sake." Wesley dropped his arms and stepped back again, lowering his voice considerably. "And keep your voices _down_. Your arguing is the last thing she needs."

Doyle felt ashamed. Wesley was right. Anger would get him nowhere, and his anger toward Gunn was misplaced. Transferred. The anger he really felt was toward himself, not only because Doyle hadn't been there to protect her, but because he hadn't even known she was in danger. He hadn't been there at all. He was the one who had let her down. If he hadn't been so stubborn, like Harry said—if he'd just let Cordelia back in, she wouldn't be in this bed. He would've been there with her; he would've protected her. Instead, he'd sent her away. And she had almost died—

"Doyle?" Cordelia's soft voice pulled him out of his internal admonishment. He looked down at her, and saw that her eyes were now open, but they weren't clear. They were glassy—clouded by the morphine.

"Yeah, Princess. I'm here." He whispered soothingly to her, gently rubbing the hand he still had clasped tightly within his own. He lifted his other hand to her head, running his fingers through her hair and continuing to smooth it back from her face.

"What happened?" She asked. Her voice was raspy and thick with the drugs, but as she looked up at him he saw something through the haze of narcotics that he hadn't seen in a while. Her vulnerability—her openness to him. "Did I fall asleep…?"

"Ya saved your boy Gunn there." Doyle explained, feeling a light shimmer of relieved tears creep to the corners of his eyes. He was so happy she was alive. So glad to be touching her, caressing her, even if it was under less-than desirable circumstances. "But ya got yourself shot—maybe not the best plan, yeah?"

"Oh, no." She murmured suddenly, and he watched her face crumple. "Oh God…"

"What? Cordy, what's wrong?" He asked, even though he knew that was a stupid question. She'd gotten shot, there was so very much wrong with that. "Are ya in pain? I can have 'em up the morphine."

"The baby." She gasped, as tears began to leak from her eyes and roll slowly down her cheeks. "What about the baby?"

He had no idea what she was talking about. His first thought was about Connor, but there was no way she could have known about that.

Then he had a second thought…

All Doyle could hear was the whoosh of his own blood flowing rapidly through his veins. Deafening him. "What?" He choked out a single syllable, as his brain slowly started to offer him another explanation for her strange words.

"Our baby." She continued to cry. No, not cry. She had begun to sob. Like he'd never seen her sob before. "It's gone—I know it's gone."

His mouth was stuck partly open, and the relieved tears that had collected in his eyes rapidly became something very different. His heart had now fully stopped in his chest as he turned his questioning eyes to the other two occupants in the room, whose heads were bowed low.

"Is she saying…? There was a…?" Doyle couldn't finish the thought. He couldn't say the word. But the two sets of conflicted eyes that slowly rose to meet his own told him all he needed to know. The compassion from Wesley, the judgment from Gunn. It all made sense now.

It was Wesley's slight nod that confirmed what Doyle had not even been able to ask. And the melancholy he saw on the other man's face told him the answer to Cordelia's question.

She had been pregnant with Doyle's child, and now she wasn't.

 _This_ had been the baby the Host warned him to protect. The child who was never meant to exist—its life hung in the balance. And now it was gone. Because Doyle _hadn't_ been there to protect it. He hadn't even known it existed.

That's when his heart broke for real. It had only been fractured the first time. This time it shattered into a million tiny pieces, as if it had been made of glass.

Nevertheless, there was someone who's broken heart mattered far more than his. Someone who needed him to be strong. No matter how much it hurt.

He had been seated on the chair by her bed, with only his hands touching her, but once the reality of the situation had dawned fully on him, he needed to be closer. He needed to embrace her. Sliding forward to balance on the very edge of the chair, he extended his arms fully, wrapping them around her. She, in turn, buried her face into his chest, heaving and sobbing against him.

"I'm so sorry, Cordy." He hushed her, even as he began to cry along with her. "So sorry." His hands rested gently on the back of her head and he continued to stroke her involuntarily. He didn't have to look up to know that Wesley and Gunn had left the room. There was nothing they could do. Nothing anyone could do.

Cordelia's physical wounds would heal. But, she'd been wounded far deeper than the eye could see.

She cried in his arms for a long time, which was a remarkable feat considering the steady stream of drugs that were entering her system. The morphine couldn't put a dent in what hurt the most. Doyle knew, because he felt it, too. And yet, he also knew his pain was but a fraction of what hers must be—this life he was now mourning had existed all too briefly, and had lived its entire existence inside her. Protected and loved and nourished by her. He would never be able to understand how that felt.

Her crying had ceased, and he realized she had fallen asleep again, wrapped in his arms. He shifted the chair closer, underneath him so he wouldn't have to move for a while. Most of his upper body was on the bed, and that was where it would stay. He hadn't been there for her when his child was growing inside her, but he could be there for her now that it was gone. It was the least he could do.

Why didn't she tell him?

Doyle closed his eyes, leaned his head against the top of hers and reflected on the last time he'd seen her. She had been carrying his child then. That night when she had come to the hotel looking as radiant as he'd ever seen her. The night she wanted him back _—_ that made sense now, too.

She was sleeping, so the sobs that filled the room were Doyle's and Doyle's alone as he realized what he had done. She hadn't told him because he hadn't _let_ her! He was too busy protecting her from himself to see that she needed him.

The Host had been right all along. Doyle had something to lose and now he'd lost it. Even worse, it was all for nothing. If this was the baby the Host had been referring to, then Doyle's renewed vigor in trying to save Connor was entirely futile. Connor was already gone and likely had been for a while. He would never exist. Not even in the way this baby had never existed—even less than that.

Doyle's shoulders shuddered as he continued to bawl in the empty room, thankful that Cordelia's drug-induced slumber was deep enough not to be disturbed by his audible grief. And when he ran out of tears he still remained, holding her close to his chest.

Knowing that when he let go, he really would have nothing left.

* * *

Doyle sat in the waiting room chair with his elbows resting on his knees and his head bowed low toward the floor. The only reason he wasn't still inside Cordelia's room was because the doctors had kicked him out. Visiting hours and all that. He wasn't immediate family, so he would have to leave. He couldn't make himself go far, though. And they couldn't kick him out of the waiting room—not if that's where he wanted to stay.

He sensed Angel even before the vampire took the seat beside him. He said nothing, of course. He just sat.

Wesley and Gunn hadn't left either and he doubted they would. They were her family these days. And, despite the confrontation he'd had with Gunn earlier, he was grateful that she had them both. Two big brothers watching her back. What happened tonight wasn't their fault. Which wasn't to say it couldn't have been prevented or avoided. It was definitely _someone's_ fault.

"How'd y'know she was here?" Doyle posed the question without raising his head. He'd been far too despondent when he'd first arrived to think about the how or the why, he'd just been glad that someone had called him. Now, however, the how and the why seemed glaringly important.

"I was with Kate when the call came in." Angel answered, and the traces of remorse in his voice told Doyle he wished otherwise. "I was working the case."

"Is that right?" Doyle asked facetiously, finally lifting his head and narrowing his eyes at Angel, putting the various pieces of the puzzle together in his head. "Funny—I don't recall ya mentioning we had any cases."

"I took care of the zombie cops—there won't be any more casualties." Angel said simply.

"But y'knew they were working this cop thing, too, yeah?" Doyle continued his interrogation, blatantly leading the witness because he'd already guessed the answers.

"I knew."

"And I'm guessing ya also knew how dangerous it was—but they aren't on your watch anymore so ya didn't give a damn what they were doing!" Doyle reproached Angel with rapidly growing anger, pointing his finger down the hallway in the general direction of Cordelia's room. "We coulda prevented this!"

"I saw her at the police station—I told her it was too dangerous." Angel insisted. "She didn't listen."

"O'course, she didn't listen!" Doyle snapped back at him. "Ya might as well have dared her to go off and solve the thing!" Doyle popped up out of his seat and paced restlessly across the floor. "Ya shoulda watched out for her, man. Ya shoulda called me—I woulda watched out for her!"

"I had it covered, Doyle." Angel replied tightly. "I solved the case. You being with me wouldn't have changed anything."

"You obviously didn't have it covered—not even close!" Doyle snapped back. "If I'd known what was going on—that she was out there in the middle of all that. If I'd known she was—" His voice broke, and he felt another sob escape his lips. He wrangled it back in, but gave up trying to complete his tirade.

"I'm sorry." Angel said in a low voice.

"Not as sorry as I am." Doyle growled back, keeping his back turned to Angel as he stormed away.

Angel sat silently in the wake of Doyle's eruptive exit. And that's when he noticed Wesley standing at the opposite end of the waiting room, glaring at him unforgivingly.

"You should go." The tall Englishman said in a voice that left no room for argument. "She wouldn't want you here. And, frankly, neither do I."

* * *

 **A/N- *hands out boxes of tissues* *and crazy glue for your fractured hearts***

 **I know, I know. Just when you thought it couldn't get anymore heartbreaking to read this story, it totally did. I am the most evil person ever and I don't blame you for hating me right now. It was so hard to write this chapter, and reread and edit for that matter. I don't usually tear up while writing, but this one broke me more than once. So, why did I do it? Why didn't I just let Doyle and Cordy have that one happy thing amidst all the sadness? Because this is season two of Angel, and if you've watched season two of Angel, you know it's not a happy season. It's about hitting rock** **bottom and coming back from that. And I thought that was an interesting story to tell.**

 **So, welcome to rock bottom. From here, there's only one way to go, right? I won't promise an instant fix, because I don't do instant fixes. Clearly, there are a few more painful chapters ahead. But I do hope you'll wipe away your tears and bravely wade through the aftermath of the emotional bomb I set off. There will be beauty in the wreckage and so much more to come thereafter. I do promise you that. xoxo**


	40. Reprise, Pt 1

**"Reprise," Part I**

Doyle's palms were wrapped so tightly around the bouquet of flowers in his hand that they'd begun to sweat. He felt like a nervous schoolboy standing there in the doorway of her hospital room. Seeing her while she was barely conscious was easy. Today was different.

 _Knock. Knock._

Cordelia was sitting propped up in bed, staring out the window. She looked a million miles away, and his knock did little to change that, although she did sluggishly roll her head toward the doorway. She didn't speak; she merely looked at him blankly as if he was a stranger walking into the room.

"Hey. You're awake, which is, uh… I brought ya some flowers." He said needlessly, holding up the bouquet and moving from the doorway further into the room. Her eyes followed him silently the whole way, and not a drop of emotion oozed from her.

Once he had gotten close enough to possibly claim the seat beside her bedside, she finally spoke. "You can leave them over there." She said disinterestedly, with a subtle nod toward the window. "Then you can go."

Doyle had turned his back to place the flowers on the windowsill where she'd indicated, but as he heard her follow up instructions, the bile churned in his stomach. He plopped the bouquet down unceremoniously and turned back to face her. "Listen, Cordy, I know the last time we talked I said some things—"

"Don't." She said, turning her face in the other direction so she wouldn't have to look at him. Although, she had cut him off, she hadn't raised her voice. Everything about her was muted. "I don't wanna hear it. It doesn't matter now."

"Yeah, I get that." Doyle replied regretfully. He couldn't really blame her. This was the reaction he'd expected from her all along, and it was the one he'd been dreading. "I'll leave, if that's what ya want, but… y'know, this isn't the sorta thing you should have to deal with on your own."

"I'm not alone." She answered robotically, still keeping her face turned away from him. "I don't need you."

"Well, maybe I need you." He responded before he could stop himself. "Maybe we need each other, yeah?" He paused to see if she'd rebut him, but she remained still and silent, causing him to fumble for more words. "I'm not meaning to sound presumptuous or insensitive here—I don't mean that we should, ah…" He cleared his throat, once again searching for the right words for this terribly wrong situation. He couldn't say what he wanted to say, which was that he still loved her. He couldn't say what he didn't want to say, which is that they could "just be friends." Truthfully, he couldn't say much of anything without sounding like an ass. "I know it'll be a long time before things can ever be right between us, assuming they can ever even come close to being that. But we won't know unless we try." He stepped a little closer to the bed, hoping she could hear the conviction in his voice. "Ya hear me? Cordy, I wanna _try_."

He wasn't certain what kind of response he was trying to trigger in her—maybe he just wanted something that didn't sound like it had been pre-programmed into her system. Maybe he wanted her to lash out and tell him she didn't care what he wanted or needed. He wanted her anger. He wanted her fire. He'd even take her tears if he had to, not that it'd be his first choice.

He wanted something other than what he got, which was a slightly lengthened blink and a deadpan voice. "I don't." She said to the wall on the other side of the room. Her head slowly lolled back in his direction, allowing him to see the blank stare that accompanied her vacant words. "Forget what I said before—it was just for the baby."

He was stricken; his expression not nearly as unreadable as hers. He probably deserved to hear that, but that didn't make it sting any less. He dropped his eyes to the white floor tiles and nodded, reluctantly accepting what she'd said to him. Absorbing it. And then he managed a reply, although he didn't know where it came from. "If ya do need anything—anything at all—don't hesitate to call, yeah?"

She was still looking at him with that cold, dead expression and although she didn't say the words out loud, he could hear them all the same.

 _I won't._

That was that. She'd shut him down—and out—and he had no choice but to respect her wishes. He gave her the weakest of weak smiles imaginable and then shuffled his way around the bed and toward the doorway.

"Wait." Her voice had taken him by complete surprise, and he stopped rather abruptly and turned back to face her once again. No doubt wearing the eager expression of a puppy that had just been summoned by its master. But, he could see right away that she wasn't stopping him for anything good. Instead, she gingerly reached over to the table beside her bed, and lifted an object that had been sitting there. An object he hadn't noticed until this moment, since he'd been so focused on her stony countenance.

She held it out toward him, the small glass heart dangling from the delicate silver chain. It caught the sunlight from the window as she extended it outward to him, sending a scatter of reflected light around the otherwise bland hospital room. "This is yours." She said, with her eyes trained on the delicate heart itself rather than him.

Frozen in place, Doyle wasn't sure what to do. He didn't want to take his heart back. He wanted her to keep it and secretly wear it the way she'd been wearing it all this time. He wanted her to keep that secret place for him inside the fortress she was rebuilding.

Cordelia dangled the piece of jewelry impatiently, but somehow she still managed to appear mechanical rather than irritated. "Take it." She ordered him. "Please?"

It was the gentle _please_ that did him in. It was the only word she'd said that had any other inflection aside from nothingness. There was an urgency to it, and although he supposed the urgency was to get the last fragment of him out of her life, he couldn't very well deny her request. If that was what she needed, he owed it to her.

He stepped forward and reached out his hand, opening his palm so she could drop the small bauble into it. Then she settled back into her mound of pillows and closed her eyes. That was goodbye, he supposed.

He doubted it could get anymore final than that.

Not unless one of them stopped breathing, which, in Doyle's case, seemed very likely to happen.

He couldn't say the word. _Goodbye_. Not out loud. Still, it echoed through the air as he turned to leave. And it followed him down the hallway to the elevator and continued as he descended each floor. It trailed him all the way to his destination of choice and each gulp he took thereafter was laced with…

 _Goodbye_.

* * *

Angel weaved through the crowd at Caritas, which was highly populated by humans that particular evening. Lawyers, by the looks of things. He didn't want to be there; was in no way amused by the ridiculously hideous demon doing his best Michael Jackson impression on the small stage. But, when the Host had called him, he knew he had to come. Because no one else would.

Of course, now that he saw tonight's clientele, he started thinking it was probably a good thing he'd shown up. With all the activity lately—all the blood sacrifices he'd interrupted in recent days—there was no doubt that Wolfram & Hart were up to something big. And they seemed to be flocking to the Host for his expertise on the subject.

As Angel made it to the rear bar, his thoughts were pulled squarely back to his primary reason for being there. The Host hadn't been exaggerating.

Doyle was hunched over the bar, vaguely conscious, but only in the most technical of terms. Only in the sense that he wasn't completely _unconscious_ … yet. He'd clearly been there for quite a while, making a valiant effort to become unconscious. And it was a good bet that if he tried to stand up from the barstool he was currently slumped over—assuming he could even _try_ —he'd land in a heap on the floor.

Angel hadn't seen his friend in days, but suspected that this had become the new normal. Similar to what must have been Doyle's old normal, the last time his life crumbled beneath him. And as disheartening as it was to see Doyle fallen so very far off the wagon, who could really blame him under the very dismal circumstances?

An uninvited hand on Angel's shoulder, caused the vampire to turn his humorless eyes toward the gregarious Host of the establishment who had sidled over. "I told you it was bad. I haven't seen him like this in—well, I've never seen him like _this_ , to be honest. This makes all those other times I kicked him out of here, seem like an overreaction on my part."

"Why did you serve him so much?" Angel rebuked, his eyes lingering on his pathetic-looking friend.

"Oh, _I_ didn't." The Host replied, giving the bartender a reproachful glance. "He was already loaded when he got here, yet unfortunately, still capable of sweet talking young Elian, over there, into serving him a triple shot of the hard stuff. That, my friend, was the shot that broke the Irishman's liver."

Angel sighed heavily, wondering if there was any chance he could get Doyle out of the club, into his car and back home to the hotel without ending up covered in the man's vomit. _If_ there was a chance, it was a relatively slim one.

"I'm assuming this means what I think it means." The Host guessed, still standing by Angel's side, observing Doyle's excessive inebriation with a forlorn look. "Cordelia. She lost the baby? Poor dear. If he's in this state, imagine what she's going through. It's a real shame that couldn't have been prevented."

"You knew she was pregnant." Angel noted with mild surprise, although it probably shouldn't surprise him that a psychic knew something that he didn't. He still wouldn't know about the baby or loss thereof if it wasn't for his preternatural hearing. No one at the hospital had told Angel what had happened—he had overheard the details.

"I saw the little guy when Cordelia sang for me." The Host said plainly. He moved closer to where Doyle lay on the bar, and placed a comforting hand on the drunken man's shoulder. Doyle had now begun to snore loudly, apparently having achieved his desired state of unconsciousness. "As with all things, there were many different possible outcomes. I warned Doyle—more than once, in fact." The Host looked up at Angel, a critical gleam in his eye. "I warned him that choosing your dark and gloomy path over the brighter one he could've had with _her_ wasn't going to end well for him. But, he seemed to think whatever he'd glimpsed in your future was more important than what I'd seen in his."

Angel didn't miss the Host's insinuation. He didn't appreciate it, either. He found himself averting his eyes toward the other end of the club, not being able to take the sight of Doyle's pitiful state, along with the Host's accusatory gaze.

"Anyway…" The Host continued, his voice taking on its usual, more light and casual cadence. "It's time to get our mutual favorite Irishman outta here. He's really throwing me off my game—do you know how hard it is to read Horatio, up there singing both his little hearts out to _Billie Jean_ , when Doyle's excruciating aura is leaking out all over the place?"

Turning back to the Host, Angel leveled the tall, green demon with a challenging look of his own. He gestured to the multiple suits in the dense crowd. "I need your help first."

"Angel, baby, you only sing one tune." The Host said with a sigh.

"Tell me what Wolfram & Hart are planning." Angel continued, ignoring the elaborate eye roll he received from the Host.

"And there it is." The Host replied, gesturing to Angel as if presenting his case to a jury. "Actually, it's less of a tune, really, and more like one sour note."

"You read them—the lawyers, the demons. Evil things." Angel argued back, hiking his thumb over his shoulder at Horatio who definitely had an evil look about him—although, anyone who could moonwalk like that probably wasn't entirely evil. "You've seen it. You know what's coming."

"Tsk, tsk. A psychic never reads and tells... I mean, I do tell people their _own_ futures, of course. But if I started blabbing your destiny to every other demon on the block how would you feel?" The Host said, letting go of Doyle's shoulder and moving back into Angel's space, so he could look him dead in the eye. "And in case you didn't catch it the first time, the whole Doyle-would've-been-better-on-a-different-path-thing was meant to invoke _guilt_ in you, my fanged friend. This wouldn't have happened to him—or to _her_ —if he hadn't stuck it out with _you_." The Host reached out and patted Angel on the shoulder condescendingly. "Now chew on that while you're carrying our pal, Jim Morrison, home."

With that, the Host sidestepped around Angel and sauntered over to Horatio who had just made his way off the karaoke stage. Angel stood in place, his eyes firmly locked on the sack of drunken bones named Doyle. "I caught it." He mumbled to himself remorsefully.

Just because he acted like he didn't care, didn't mean he actually didn't care. If Angel could go back and change things, he never would've let Doyle sacrifice his own happiness—or Cordelia's—on Angel's account. Even now, when Angel had nearly convinced himself he didn't care about anything or anyone, he knew he still cared about Doyle—still needed him. And yet, what could Angel do about it? Nothing. What had been done, was done. What had been lost, was lost. And Angel still had to do what he had to do—kill Darla, take down Wolfram & Hart. With or without his best friend's help.

But first, he'd take the drunken half-demon home. It was the least he could do. The very _very_ least.


	41. Reprise, Pt 2

**"Reprise," Part II**

The brightly colored cluster of balloons bobbed around on the ceiling as Wesley released his hold on the strings. The biggest one, in the center, bore the message _Get Well Soon!_

"Thanks." Cordelia mumbled unenthusiastically. She lay on her couch, covered in a fuzzy blanket, staring at her toes, which peeked out from the other end. Clover, who had been nestled beside her, bounced down on the carpet and began leaping madly to try and capture the curly ribbons that hung from the balloons. At least they'd had a positive effect on one occupant of the apartment.

"We also brought some grub." Gunn announced, lifting the hefty-looking paper bag he held in his arms. "All kinds of ready-made options at your service. What are you in the mood for? Italian? Chinese? Indian? Only thing missing is Mexican, but I can go grab some tacos, if you want 'em."

"I'm not hungry." She replied absently, turning her head to eye the wheelchair that waited for her beside the couch. It wasn't that she couldn't walk on her own—she wasn't paralyzed or anything. Not physically, anyway. The bullet that had pierced her gut had caused minimal damage, aside from the excessive bleeding. The doctors had said she was lucky. No major organs were injured. No bones were shattered. Even the scar wouldn't be so bad; it'd be smaller than the one she had from the rebar incident.

But she wasn't actually lucky at all. Because the hemorrhaging had caused her body to go into shock, which in turn, made it inhospitable to the tiny life that had been growing inside her womb. The tiny life that was no longer growing. The emptiness left behind is what hurt the most. That is what made her feel paralyzed.

"Cordelia, you have to eat." Wesley said gently, moving toward the armchair across from her and easing himself into it, trying to meet her eyes. "You need your strength."

"Yeah, and we need your skills back at the office." Gunn added, placing the bag down on the dining room table. "'Cause English ain't real savvy with the filing system you've got going on. By the way, why are the Sharps filed under E?"

The bag of food was promptly lifted off the table and floated away toward the kitchen, causing Gunn to backpedal with mild alarm. "Woah, I will never _ever_ get used to that."

Cordelia said nothing. Did nothing. Nothing was what she desperately wanted to feel.

She watched as Phantom Dennis carried the bag of food away, and idly wondered if he liked being a ghost. As far as she could tell, Dennis seemed more cheerful than most human beings. If one could call an incorporeal being "cheerful." Hard to tell when he had no facial expressions, or a face.

"Cordelia." Wesley's voice was louder than she had expected, and it semi-snapped her back to the present tense. He might have called her name more than once, but she couldn't be certain. She finally turned her eyes to face the concerned individual leaning toward her from the chair. His brow was etched with deep worry lines. "Is there anything we can get you? Anything at all?"

"A new box of tissues." Gunn suggested.

She blinked a few times, noting how dry her eyes were. "I don't think I can cry anymore." She said aloud, blinking once again. The nearly empty tissue box sat at arm's reach. She lifted a finger to the soft flesh beneath her left eye and traced a light pattern there. "I think my tear ducts are swollen shut."

Wesley looked over at Gunn, finding the same worry lines deep in the face of his companion. Despite all their best efforts, Cordelia had effectively shut down. It was as if her emotions had been turned off and where once there was a fiery, passionate force-to-be-reckoned with, a Cordelia-shaped shell was all that currently remained. And neither one of them had the slightest idea how to get through to her, or even if they should try, for that matter.

They had to try.

"Yes, well… perhaps, you are dehydrated." Wesley offered, swallowing hard at the lameness of his words.

"I'll grab you some water." Gunn said helpfully, cocking his head toward the kitchen. Before he'd even left the room, they could hear the cabinets open and the faucet in the kitchen turn on. "Or, I guess Dennis will take care of that, too."

Giving up on his mission to flee the room, Gunn stepped around Clover, who was still excitedly leaping up at the balloon strings. He settled into the armchair at the opposite end of the living room, and placed his hands on his knees in a waiting pose. Seconds later a full glass of water floated across the room and plopped onto the coffee table beside the box of tissues. Cordelia didn't make even the slightest move to drink from it. She wasn't thirsty.

"Angel came to the office today." Gunn blurted out, causing Wesley's head to snap up in his direction. Out of all the cheer-up strategies he could think of, he doubted that'd be an effective one. Then again, if Gunn was simply trying to make Cordelia angry, it wasn't a bad way to go. "He just barged right in the place and took a book off the shelf. Didn't say please or nothing."

Cordelia snorted lightly, which was the most emotion they'd seen from her in days. "Sounds rude." She said with a shrug.

"I think your anger ducts are swelled shut, too—but mine ain't." Gunn answered, leaning back into the chair cushion. "If Wesley hadn't been so worried about the book being damaged, Angel wouldn't have been able to leave with it—not _all_ of it anyway."

"There's only three of them left in this dimension and who knows where the other two are." Wesley clarified. "I'd rather have the book intact and with Angel than to have pieces strewn all about."

"Y'know what? Misery really doesn't love company." Cordelia said abruptly. She saw their troubled faces and tried her best to muster a weak smile; it was really more of a grimace. "It's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do, but Dennis has everything covered."

Another shared glance between her two visitors—that was becoming their _thing_. The two of them, always worrying over her. Although it would normally be reassuring to know she had two good friends looking out for her, it was of little comfort at the moment. "Seriously, guys. I'm allergic to pity. Go forth and have actual lives. Gunn, I'm sure your old crew misses you and Wesley, you have a girlfriend—spend the night with her. I have a fridge full of food and my big fuzzy blanket. I'll be fine."

"Yeah, well, I don't know if the old crew wants to see me too much these days." Gunn admitted.

"And I'm afraid that Virginia and I… uh…" Wesley dropped his eyes toward his lap as he relived his own bit of grief. "She felt it best if we stopped seeing each other."

"Her mistake." Cordelia replied sincerely, giving Wesley a dose of the sympathy he'd been laying on thick for her sake. Seeing that neither he, nor Gunn, looked interested in moving from their respective chairs, she gave up the fight. Slowly, she maneuvered herself into a proper sitting position on the couch and pulled the wheelchair closer so she could transfer herself into it. Gunn practically leapt from his seat to assist her, but she waved him off and managed on her own, with only a slight groan. "In that case… you can stay, if you want. Dennis would probably enjoy the company." She settled into the wheelchair and backed herself away from her guests. "I think he misses that overly complicated board game you both love so much. Just play it quietly, because I'm going to bed."

As she rolled away from them, she paused to scoop Clover into her lap, and then continued through the room and toward the hallway beyond. An awkward throat clearing behind her gave her another pause as she waited for Wesley to say whatever it was he wanted to say.

"You really should talk to someone." He said from behind her. "It doesn't have to be us."

"I already have an appointment to get my head shrunk." She answered tightly. It was true. The doctor at the hospital had insisted on it. She really didn't feel like sharing her grief with anyone, least of all some stranger with a fancy degree. "I start bright and early tomorrow morning. So, see, nothing to worry about. I'm sure spilling my guts, will have me feeling better about literally spilling my guts in no time."

"I'm sure it will take considerable time before anything feels _better_." Wesley responded evenly, not reacting to her facetiousness. "Do you need a ride?"

"Yeah." She admitted in a small voice. "The appointment's at ten."

"I'll be here with the truck." Gunn spoke up from his place across from Wesley. "It's got plenty of room for the wheelchair."

"Wouldn't want to forget that." Cordelia said without enthusiasm. "Goodnight, guys."

Wheeling her way down the hall and into the bedroom, Cordelia shut the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. Alone at last.

Buried beneath her thick cloud of despondency, she was grateful to Wesley and Gunn for being there. But, no matter how hard they tried, they weren't what she wanted right now.

There was only one shoulder she'd ever been willing to cry on. The one belonging to her former lover, and more importantly, her best friend. But as much as she yearned for that particular shoulder—and the man attached to it—she also wanted it as far away from her as possible.

She wanted to hate him. Hate him for not being there. Hate him for making it so she couldn't _let_ him be there. Hate him for the role he'd played in all of this, no matter how indirect it had been. Hate him for the direct role he'd played as well—after all, he had _directly_ knocked her up.

Cordelia wanted to hate him, but it didn't really feel like hate deep down inside. It felt like loss.

Her eyes lingered on the phone by her bed. It would be so easy to dial his number. She knew he'd come running. She knew he'd sit with her and hold her and share her pain as only he could. But, she also knew she couldn't and wouldn't do that. Because it wouldn't actually help. It wouldn't make her feel any better. In fact, it would probably only make her feel worse in the long run. Thinking of him was hard enough, but seeing him would make the pain inescapable. She'd look into his eyes and all she'd see was what _could've_ been and what _wasn't_ now. A mirror of her own loss. Then again, she wasn't sure he even considered it a loss at all. To him, it was probably a relief. An unwanted obligation avoided. A close call averted…

Maybe hating him wasn't so impossible, after all.

A sharp bolt of pain struck her and she leaned forward in her chair, her hand sliding over the thick bandages that held her guts in place.

Time. It would take time. Time to heal her physical wounds. Time to deal with her emotional ones. Time to get over Doyle—for real this time, not the way she had faked it before. Nothing but _time_ would do that.

And the shrink, apparently.

Cordelia sat up straight and propelled herself across the bedroom carpet. She lined up her chair next to her side of the bed—although, technically, the whole bed was hers now, as there were no other regular occupants aside from Clover. She placed the tiny feline on the bed first, and the cat scrambled toward the opposite side, to fluff the empty pillow that would remain empty. Cordelia pulled back the bedcovers, gingerly stood from the wheelchair, removed her bathrobe and slid herself in between the soft sheets.

She lay in the dimly lit room, staring vacantly at the ceiling trying not to think of the phone that was just out of arm's reach. She carefully rolled over on her side, but that turned out to be a bad idea. Sitting on her bedside table was the only item in the entire apartment that belonged to Doyle. Cordelia had gotten rid of everything else—every scrap of clothing, every personal item no matter how big or small or seemingly insignificant. Even the toothbrush that had sat in her toothbrush holder had been purged along with all his other belongings. But, on her bedside table, his copy of _Angela's Ashes_ still sat, unfinished.

Maybe she hadn't finished it on purpose—as long as it was unfinished, she could justify having it there. But right now, she didn't want it anywhere in her eye line. It might as well have been a giant neon sign that said CALL DOYLE. So, she slowly and carefully turned over to face the empty side of the bed. Well, not entirely empty—there was still a small cat that lay there beside her.

Another mistake. Clover's wide eyes were open and gazing back at her. Green eyes, just like Doyle's. Staring at her from the pillow that used to belong to him. Gazing into those colored orbs Cordelia wondered if their baby would've had his beautiful eyes. And that's when she felt it—the deep sob rising from deep within her chest. Apparently, her tear ducts weren't swollen shut after all. They were just waiting for the proper trigger. She let the tears come, even as she closed her eyes and pulled the soft comforter over her head.

If only her sorrow could be expelled as easily as her tears. If only _time_ could move faster to heal her wounds. If only she could go back and change things the way the other version of her had done once before.

She wanted to go back. She wanted to change it all.


	42. Reprise, Pt 3

**"Reprise," Part III**

A throbbing head was all Doyle registered at first. Then, slowly, he also became aware of the excessive dry mouth and the sore throat and the acidic feeling in his stomach. All of this was going on inside of his body, which lay on a surprisingly soft surface. Unlike so many of the other surfaces he'd found himself waking up on lately.

Cracking open an eyelid, he was even further surprised to see that he knew exactly which soft surface it was that he was planted face down upon. It was his bed at the Hyperion, although how he'd come to be on that bed was unfathomable to him. The last thing Doyle could remember was stumbling drunkenly into Caritas, and even that was a hazy memory at best; it could have been a dream, so abstract it was.

He lay there unmoving for several minutes, acclimating to consciousness and wondering how long it'd be until he could go back to _unconsciousness_ , which was very much preferable. When he finally managed to rollover and sit up, he immediately sunk back down onto the mattress—the pain in his head and churning in his stomach made lying down imperative.

So, Doyle lay there with his eyes closed for an indeterminate amount of time. He lacked the ability to fall asleep, but equally lacked the ability to rise from the bed and find anything that would help him fall back asleep, such as another bottle of whiskey. And, frankly, the feeling in his stomach told him that another bottle of whiskey would probably end up burning a hole right through him… or end up right back on the floor.

On the upside, he was so focused on how shitty he felt and how desperately he didn't want to be sick all over himself, that he couldn't really think about anything else. Like, say, why he'd drank himself into this state in the first place.

When he tried to sit up the second time, he managed to remain seated, but had to keep his eyes closed or else the spinning room would probably knock him right back over. His head felt heavy, as did all his limbs. However, a brief peek from under his lids revealed a full glass of water on his bedside table.

He sure as hell didn't put that there. Angel must have done it. Right after he'd brought Doyle home and dumped him on his bed.

Doyle scoffed bitterly at the thought of Angel coming to his rescue. The last person he wanted help from was Angel. The last person he wanted _anything_ from was Angel. Thinking of the brooding vampire triggered something other than his debilitating hangover. Namely, all the reasons he had tried to drink himself into an early grave in the first place.

And there really was no mistake—that's what Doyle had intended to do. It wasn't the quickest or easiest or most efficient way to dispose of himself, but it was the way he knew best.

Several more minutes passed before Doyle reached out to actually sip from the water glass, and he did so with his eyes mostly open. Still another quarter of an hour went by before Doyle was able to stand and lumber toward the bathroom. He thought he'd be sick once he got there, but realized the ache in his stomach was probably an indication that he'd already been sick and currently had nothing left to purge. Also adding to that theory was the soreness in his throat—a sure sign that a large quantity of stomach acid had passed through his esophagus in the recent past.

That reminded him—was it day? Or night? The room was dark, but that could've been due to the heavy blackout curtains that were closed tightly. Having zero sense of the time, or even the date, Doyle lifted his wrist to look at his watch and found nothing but bare skin. A wave of panic seized him.

Not that. He couldn't have lost _that_. It was all he had left of her, as pitiful as that was.

Lurching back into the bedroom with far more speed than he should've been capable of, he began scanning the bedside tables and dresser tops, searching for his precious memento. He didn't stop to turn on the lights, but he didn't really need them. His eyes had adjusted to the dark and his demon vision took care of the rest. Sniffing the air was useless in this case—the watch hardly had a scent that wasn't Doyle's own, and the room was bathed in that particular odor. He searched the bed sheets, he searched beneath the bed. Where he was finding the strength and clarity of mind to do this much activity was beyond him—adrenaline was a powerful drug and he had suddenly become loaded with it.

He'd begun mentally retracing his journey from bar to bar, trying to discern where and when he would've lost his prized possession. That's when he saw his brown leather jacket slung over a chair and he had the vaguest of vague memories. Crossing the room, he snatched up the jacket and searched the pockets frantically.

The watch was there… it just wasn't ticking anymore. That was why he'd placed it in his pocket—not being able to stand the bitter irony. To make matters worse, the glass heart that Cordelia had returned to him was also in that same pocket and the two accessories were now twisted together in a way that would make them nearly impossible to separate—the silver chain in knots around the gold watch. A multi-headed hydra of silver and gold.

These inanimate objects appeared to be mocking him.

A surge of fury rose through him at the perceived ridicule and he was tempted to violently fling the monstrosity at the wall so he could watch the components shatter to bits. The timepiece that could no longer keep time. The lucky charm that had brought only bad luck. He was gripping the twisted jewelry in his hand so tight that his knuckles turned stark white. But, ultimately, he didn't give in to the pointless tantrum. He didn't need to break what was already broken.

Instead, Doyle dropped the formerly meaningful trinkets back into the pocket of his beat up leather jacket, and turned to leave the room as quickly as his unsteady legs would carry him, still riding the wave of endorphins. Being upset with objects was a fruitless endeavor. Being upset with himself… well, that was pretty much his default state, and it also seemed rather fruitless. No, if he was going to be bitter and angry and destructive, then he was going to try and make something of it. He was going to take a page out of Angel's playbook and direct it at someone other than himself for once.

He was going to direct it at the person who actually _deserved_ it.

Doyle had absolutely nothing left. Less than nothing. And the reason for that was because Doyle had been focused on getting _everything_ for Angel.

Angel, who had turned his back on his friends and willingly given in to the darkness. Angel, who was as broody and apathetic as Doyle had ever seen him. Not to mention utterly thankless.

Over a year ago, when all this had started, Doyle had trusted he was backing the right horse—that Angel was the real deal in the hero department. The kind of hero that wouldn't give up when the going got tough. Wouldn't turn his back on the people who cared about him. Wouldn't willingly give in to the darkness and keep giving in. Over and over. Doyle had nearly sacrificed his own life for that vampire. All because he believed Angel—the real hero that he was—was worth saving.

Now he really had to wonder.

Sure, Angel hadn't asked Doyle to stick around. He hadn't asked Doyle to give up anything. And it wasn't Angel's fault that Doyle had sent Cordelia away the last time she'd come around—Doyle only had himself to blame for that epic lapse in judgment. But every step of the way, Doyle had been okay with forfeiting his own happiness as long as he believed he was pushing others toward theirs. Others who deserved it more than he did. Cordelia—she deserved happiness, but she was anything but happy now. Angel… well, Doyle wasn't convinced Angel even deserved happiness. Not anymore!

Doyle had worked himself into quite a tizzy as he marched up to Angel's apartment door, ready to slam his fists into the thick wood until Angel opened it up and faced him. Man to man. Demon to demon. Doyle planned to verbally unload every bit of disappointment he felt in his fallen hero, and to, literally, kick Angel in the ass, if necessary. Granted, that probably wouldn't end well for Doyle considering he couldn't take Angel even on his best day, and this was far from Doyle's best day. Even so, this was the moment of truth and it had been a long time coming—

The raging Irishman's fist was raised, about to slam down on Angel's door… but he held it there, unmoving, as he began to sense something rather surprising on the other side.

 _Darla_.

Darla was there with Angel. She was in his apartment right that very second, and as Doyle willingly used his superior demon senses to his advantage, he grasped the full scope of exactly what was transpiring inside that apartment. Which is why he slowly lowered his fist and backed away from the door. And he kept backing away until he hit the wall on the other side of the hallway and slunk down to the floor, staring in awe at the numbers etched on the front of Angel's door. 3. 1. 2.

This was it. _This_ was the moment Doyle had been waiting for all along. The moment he had been trying to shepherd into existence. The moment he didn't think was possible anymore, and yet… it actually made perfect sense. Angel wouldn't have risked sleeping with Darla for love or comfort or grief. He wouldn't have risked it as a goodbye. He would only have risked it if he didn't care at all—in a moment of perfect despair.

So there it was. The cruel irony.

The only way to gain _everything_ was to lose it first.

Doyle didn't feel any sense of relief or completion. His own 'perfect despair' loomed too large for him to feel victorious in this moment of apparent glory. Plus, Doyle knew that there was nothing to feel victorious about. Had he actually been cognizant of the choice he was making—trading the life of his own child for Angel's child—he would have chosen differently. He would have chosen his own flesh and blood in a heartbeat. He would have chosen Cordelia's flesh and blood in half a heartbeat.

This wasn't a selfless act. This was an accident.

The anger hadn't fully subsided. Doyle still felt capable of rising to his feet and mashing his fists into that door. He still felt capable of spite—capable of _ruining_ it. But, he forced himself to remain motionless, his head resting on the wall behind him, his eyes closed. Silently talking himself off the proverbial ledge; trying to grasp for the broken pieces of himself that had worked so hard to see this plan through to its bittersweet end.

Doyle was a lot of things, but spiteful had never been one of them. Not unless he was only spiting himself. He may be furious and disillusioned at the moment, but he knew that once the clouds of depression cleared, he didn't really want to take anything away from the man he still considered his best friend. Nor did he want the weight of _two_ lost souls on his conscience. The sacrifice had already been made and Doyle didn't want it to have been for nothing.

 _This_ was something. With this moment in time coming to its completion—and based on the ruckus coming from inside the apartment, it didn't take demon senses to know it was _absolutely_ coming to its completion—Doyle had accomplished his goal.

He hadn't changed what should've always been. He'd saved Connor. He'd given Angel his son.

Shifting to his knees, Doyle crawled away from Angel's door and eventually made it to his feet. He felt far more unstable than he had just moments earlier, all the adrenaline ebbing away, leaving behind a sick and dejected man in its wake.

Maybe someday he'd be glad that the miracle child of two vampires had come into the world. Maybe someday he'd be happy to be Uncle Doyle to little Connor. Maybe someday he could be proud of the one thing he'd done right, rather than regretting the entire ocean of wrong. Maybe someday there could still be some light in Doyle City. Assuming he was there to see it.

He would be there. Because Doyle did have _something_ after all.

He still had the job. The job that had once given him purpose and meaning, but now felt like a shackle. The job that had once brought him love and friendship, but now seemed to doom him to loneliness. The job wasn't over yet—in fact, it had only _just_ begun. For Connor's now probable existence meant that Doyle had successfully kept things on track. The next step would be much harder—the next step would be making sure things were _different_.

So that all those glimmering maybes and somedays could potentially occur. Not tomorrow. Or the next day. Probably not the day after that either.

Right now, Doyle would embrace the emptiness and loneliness and the darkness. Right now, that's what he deserved. He wanted to wallow in his old friend, self-pity. He wanted to sink to the bottom of it and let himself drown.

Because right now, he really didn't care about tomorrow. Or the next day. Or even the one after that. Right now, all he wanted was oblivion.


	43. Epiphany, Pt 1

**"Epiphany," Part I**

"Doyle! Wake up!"

If the volume of Angel's voice repeatedly saying his name hadn't been enough, Doyle was roused from his deep alcohol-induced sleep by a violent shaking.

"Doyle?! Come on."

More shaking, which finally led Doyle to lift an arm, lazily swatting away the unusually noisy vampire looming over his bed. "Mmmmph." He grumbled sleepily into his pillow. "Pass me a stake..."

Apparently, Angel wasn't going to be deterred by idle death threats. He went over to the thick, blackout curtains next to the bed and flung them open, carefully remaining out of the powerfully bright stream of sunlight that fell across Doyle's face.

"Heeeeey." Doyle moaned, flinging his arm over his eyes to block out the harsh light of day from permeating his eyelids. It was too much for this hour, or any other hour that came after a multi-day bender. All the noise and light. All the throbbing in his head. He couldn't understand why Angel had decided to torture him mercilessly this morning, considering how much Doyle had already abused himself in recent days. "What the hell, man?! Ya don't see me waking you up like that."

Angel let the curtain drop back into place and moved swiftly back toward the bed to force Doyle into a sitting position, deftly catching the empty whiskey bottle that tumbled out of the bed at the movement. It had been tucked under Doyle's arm like a teddy bear. Angel tossed it lightly to the floor, beside several other empties that were piled up beside the bed. "God, Doyle, how many days have you been drinking like this? You smell terrible. And you look worse."

"Yeah… well, screw you." Doyle grumped back, clumsily trying to push Angel away so he could plop back down onto the mattress. "Get outta my room."

"Is this how it's gonna be from now on? You drinking yourself to death. Day after day. Night after night." Angel demanded, his fingers digging into the flesh of Doyle's upper arms as he gave him another violent shake.

"I certainly intend to try." Doyle retorted acidly. "But I think I've run outta provisions. Ya mind grabbing me a few Billie Dee's while you're out?"

"Get it together, Doyle. I need your help. I need you to _sober_ up." Angel kept talking, he let go of Doyle's arms and began lightly slapping his cheeks instead. Trying to get his intoxicated friend to give him something resembling direct eye contact. Meanwhile, Doyle blinked rapidly in bemusement, figuring he was very likely to hurl on the other man's shoes if he kept up with all the smacking. "Kate needs your help—she left a message on the machine downstairs and… it's bad. I think she may have done something to hurt herself. I need you to drive over there!"

Doyle snorted with a sudden burst of laughter, not fully comprehending any of Angel's words aside from the part where he was expected to magically sober up and drive a motor vehicle. Even if he were to morph into his demon form—which he wouldn't do for all the whiskey in Ireland—he wasn't going to be capable of operating heavy machinery. "I'm not gonna be sober anytime soon, man." Doyle slurred. "Drive yourself."

"It's day!" Angel pointed out urgently, gesturing toward the curtain he'd opened a few moments earlier. "Hard to drive with a coat over my head. And I've never been invited into her place—I _need_ you. Now dammit!"

"Where were ya when I needed you, huh?" Doyle growled back bitterly. His synapses were firing ultra-slowly; he was still trying to process the details, but the anger came unbidden. He didn't need to be clear-headed to feel the ire that was still percolating in his gut. "Where were ya when Cordy needed you?"

"I know I screwed up." Angel agreed, leaning down to give Doyle direct, and very sincere, eye contact. It had been so long since Doyle had seen anything of the like on Angel's face; he'd almost forgotten what it looked like. He had to wonder if he wasn't imagining it now, since his perception was rather off at the moment. "I have a lot to make up for, but right now, it's _Kate_ that's in trouble. Letting her die isn't the way to get back at me."

Doyle frowned up at Angel, feeling a wave of almost-sobriety crash over him as he considered Angel's dire declaration. Of course, he wasn't going to let Kate die. He would never do something like that. "Well, what are we waiting for? We'd better get over there." Doyle croaked, slowly pushing himself up off the bed and onto his feet. He stumbled backward, nearly crashing back down onto the mattress, but Angel reached out and stabilized him. "I really can't drive, though."

"I can manage the driving." Angel acknowledged, giving Doyle a skeptical once over and removing his hand from the other man's shoulder. "Can you _walk_?"

"Been doing it most of my life." Doyle said smartly, taking a few steps… and then going straight down, landing in a heap on the floor. "Ugh." He groaned from the pain of the fall as well as the general pain that being awake was causing him. "On second thought, I suppose I could use a little hand, yeah?"

Angel reached down and helped Doyle back up to his feet, slinging an arm under his friend's shoulders to keep him upright. The vampire shook his head reproachfully as the two men stumbled together toward the doorway.

"Right now we have to save Kate." Angel declared. "But when we're finished, I think we're gonna have to work on saving you."

* * *

Cordelia stared at the fake-looking plant in the corner of the spacious office. She was pretty certain the thing was made of rubber, and if that were the case, she thought that was a poor choice of office décor for a therapist's office. Here you were, trying to assist people through crises so they could go out and live life, and you couldn't even put a real live plant in your office.

"Cordelia." The smiling woman with thick horn-rimmed glasses addressed her from the chair across the way, causing her to drag her eyes away from the rubber plant. "I asked how you felt when you first found out you were pregnant."

Oh, that's right. Cordelia was supposed to be doing all the talking. Normally, she was quite happy to chat incessantly about herself, but not with this particular person. She stared blankly at the woman in front of her, noticing the fake blonde hair to go with her fake office plant. She probably also had fake tips on those well-manicured nails and maybe there weren't even real lenses in those fake-looking glasses. Cordelia supposed all the fake stuff was no big deal as long as that framed degree on the wall was real—that was what counted, right? That's why she was here.

"I felt like any woman would feel under the circumstances." Cordelia said with a shrug. She was slouching in her wheelchair, preferring to stay capable of mobility, should she desire a quick getaway. Plus, the couch looked terribly uncomfortable and institutional. Not worth the effort it would take to transfer herself out of the chair.

"How is that?" The therapist asked—her name was Hope. Sounded like a fake name for a therapist, the way meteorologists liked to change their names to Dallas Raines or Storm E. Field. "Would you mind getting a little more specific?"

Cordelia blew out a long breath between her lips and turned to stare out the open window behind the probably-fake plant. "I don't know where to start." She admitted. "There was more than one feeling."

With her peripheral vision, Cordelia could see Hope nodding her head, as if she expected a non-answer such as that. "Why don't you tell me if you'd ever thought about having children? Maybe that's a better place to start."

"Not really." Cordelia said, keeping her eyes averted toward the window. She watched the small people walking on the sidewalk below, feeling slightly detached from the words that trickled from her mouth. "I'm kind of young to be thinking of that stuff."

"How about your… boyfriend? Is that right? It says here that you're unmarried." Hope said, flipping through Cordelia's paperwork she had clipped to her clipboard. "Has the baby's father ever shared his feelings on the subject?"

"No." Cordelia responded. That felt like a lie—she was fairly certain she _did_ know Doyle's feelings on the subject, since he had shared his history of wanting children with Harriet, and then most definitely _not_ wanting them _ever_. "He's my ex-boyfriend now. And, no, we'd never discussed it—it was… um, the pregnancy was an accident."

"When did you break up?" Hope asked gently, and although Cordelia was still not looking at the other woman, she could hear the sympathy in her voice. For once, something about this woman actually seemed authentic.

"Before Christmas." Cordelia replied dully, her voice starting to become a little hoarse. "I didn't know I was pregnant at the time." She cleared her throat, which caused Hope to lean forward, indicating the small paper cup of water sitting on a side table. Cordelia eyed the cup for a moment, before reaching out to pick it up and taking a sip. With a clearer voice, she continued her previous thought. "I guess I should have figured it out sooner, but between the breakup and being unemployed and then starting a new business—I thought it was just regular old exhaustion I was feeling."

"That sounds like a lot to deal with all at once." Hope agreed. "The body does tend to act differently when under stress. What made you finally realize it was more than that?"

"The excessive puking mostly." Cordelia explained bluntly. "Followed by a glance at my calendar, and peeing on one of those little sticks."

"Okay." Hope said with a polite chuckle. "What did you do when the test came back positive?"

"Um, freaked, of course." Cordelia said utilizing her best "duh" expression. Boy, this Hope person asked the most obvious questions. "Me, about to become a single mom? I never thought I'd let myself be put in that kind of situation. And I really wasn't sure—"

Cordelia's voice gave out as her confession caught in her throat.

"Go on." Hope urged in a comforting voice. "You weren't sure of what?"

"I wasn't sure I wanted to keep it." She whispered, hating the words as they left her mouth, even though they were the truth. _Especially_ because they were the truth. As difficult as that was to admit, there was a slight weight lifted off her chest as the confession poured out of her. Taking a deep breath, she continued to purge. "But, then I changed my mind, because it belonged to someone I loved. And I thought that should matter. A life, created from love—that definitely mattered, right?"

Cordelia opened her eyes, the tears clenched tightly inside their ducts. She finally snuck a glance over at Hope, who sat patiently across from her, wearing a completely neutral expression. "All that matters is that it mattered to you." The other woman answered ambiguously. It was quite a talent this Hope person had—as if she had no _real_ personality or opinion of her own. She seemed to simply reflect Cordelia's own thoughts right back at her. Perhaps, that was the point.

"It did." Cordelia confirmed with a sigh. "But, then I found out the person I loved didn't feel that way anymore…"

Hope waited a beat to make sure Cordelia was done with her thought, before gently asking her next question. "How did you feel about the baby then?"

"Confused." Cordelia admitted, becoming more and more comfortable with the process of venting her inner thoughts to the blank slate seated across from her. "I started to have doubts again, y'know? Because the one person I thought I could always depend on— was gone. And he wasn't coming back." Cordelia explained, her voice taking on a stronger, clearer quality as she continued to expel the heaviness from her body. As the weight of sadness ebbed away, she started to feel the old familiar anger rise up in its place. She went with that feeling, letting her old fire relight itself and burn its way to the surface. "But, when I really thought about it, I realized I _did_ still want the baby. Because it was mine as much as his and that mattered, too—not to mention, it wasn't the baby's fault that its father was being a complete idiot!" She huffed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "Plus, I still loved the idiot."

Hope simply nodded along, her pen hovering over the clipboard she held in her lap, but it didn't look like she had actually written anything down. She was simply listening and absorbing and reflecting. Which was fine, because Cordelia was on a roll now—talking to herself was far more therapeutic than talking to someone else. No one could understand Cordelia Chase better than Cordelia Chase.

"Then I got shot." Cordelia explained with an air of frustration. Before Hope could open her mouth to reply, Cordelia rambled on, anticipating the next set of questions that would follow. "You wanna know how I felt about that? Well, I felt like it sucked!" She said bluntly. "Worst pain I ever felt in my life—and I was pretty sure I was going to die. Then, I found out the baby was gone— and _that_ turned out to be the _actual_ worst pain I'd ever felt in my life. I couldn't even remember what it felt like to have not wanted it; at that moment, there was nothing I wanted more." Hope waited a beat and then opened her mouth again, but once again Cordelia cut her off. "Guilty." She answered the unspoken question. "I felt guilty for every moment I spent doubting that I'd wanted it."

The other woman didn't say a word, she sat silently, waiting for Cordelia to continue once again. But, this time, Cordelia was done. She arched a questioning brow at the bespectacled fake-blonde, causing the therapist to reposition herself, sitting up straighter.

"Well…" Hope began, testing the waters to see if she was actually allowed to speak now or if it was merely some kind of trick. "That all sounds quite normal to me, Cordelia. Even if you had been trying to have a baby… it's normal to have doubts. None of those feelings had anything to do with losing the baby. You certainly can't blame yourself for what happened."

"Oh, I _don't_ blame myself." Cordelia clarified sassily, sitting up straighter in her own chair and wheeling herself a few inches closer to the therapist sitting across from her. "I blame my broody vampire boss for firing me, and my demon ex-boyfriend for caring more about his job than me. _That_ was why I was out there on my own, without any backup. But, most of all, I blame the zombie cop who shot me!" Cordelia finished with a bang and realized she had, perhaps, gone a little too far with the honesty stuff. "Metaphorically speaking."

Hope's eyes had gone considerably wider and her jaw was slightly ajar. Look at that, Cordelia had managed to get an actual reaction out of the blank slate seated across from her. The therapist dropped her eyes to the clipboard in her lap and began writing feverishly. "Oookay. This is good." She said uncertainly as she continued to write, cheating small curious peeks up at Cordelia. "Really good. But…" Hope stopped writing then, and gave Cordelia a long, troubled gaze. "I think, perhaps, we should discuss your choice of adjectives."


	44. Epiphany, Pt 2

**"Epiphany," Part II**

Doyle took the mug of coffee offered by Angel, and nodded up at the vampire in thanks before taking a sip of the warm, dark liquid. He was seated on the circular sofa in the center of the lobby, reflecting on the first day in over a week that he'd spent entirely sober. Mostly sober, in any case; it had taken a little while for Doyle to actually get to that status in the first place.

What a day it had been. It had started with his rude awakening, courtesy of Angel, and hadn't gotten much better as Doyle feared for his life—and gag reflex—as Angel sped across town with a blanket over his head. It had been a miracle they weren't pulled over… or worse.

From there, came the mad dash through Kate's building and to the doorway of her apartment, which Angel was able to break through, despite his inability to cross the threshold. Doyle, took things from there. He found Kate on the living room floor, unconscious and barely breathing, having swallowed a bottle of pills and chased it with a bottle of whiskey. He'd hollered for Angel to call 911 before dragging her to the shower and dousing them both in a steady stream of freezing cold water. As she coughed and sputtered, slowly coming back to her senses, Doyle was pretty sure he'd come back to his own as well.

Apparently, the whole rock-bottom thing was going around. He only hoped Kate would start climbing upward now, claw her way back to the surface—he doubted anyone would be there to pull her out of the abyss next time if she was hell bent on throwing herself into it. Something told him she wasn't.

And despite what he'd thought a mere twelve hours earlier when he'd been deep in the bowels of his own drunken depression, he wasn't hell bent on throwing himself back into that abyss either. He took another sip from the coffee mug, glad to have something in his stomach that wasn't whiskey. He'd had actual food today, and was now supplementing it with caffeine. He was also glad to have had two showers today—the freezing cold wake up call with Kate, and the warmer, soapier version he'd had when he'd gotten back to the hotel.

Doyle almost felt human again—or about as human as a half-demon could ever feel, which is why he was sitting in the lobby instead of hiding in his room, avoiding the elephant—or, vampire—in the room.

"I'm sorry." Angel said, as he eased himself onto the sofa beside Doyle. "For everything. For taking your friendship for granted, for being blind to what you were going through, for being reckless and taking things way too far. But, most of all, I'm sorry for giving up the mission." He continued earnestly, keeping his head straight ahead, so only his profile was facing Doyle, his hands were steepled between his open legs. "I've had an epiphany…"

"Is that what we're calling it?" Doyle asked sardonically. "I can't imagine any roll in the hay can be _that_ life-altering, man."

Angel's head popped upward with surprise. "Wait… how do you—?"

"Demon senses, remember?" Doyle reminded him. "Let's just say, I was very strongly considering giving ya a piece of my mind last night, but I thought better of it when I realized ya had company."

That revelation gave Angel pause, and he sat quietly for a moment as he absorbed the full meaning behind it. "You weren't afraid I'd turn evil?"

"I was never afraid of that." Doyle acknowledged. "And, even if I was…" He shrugged, letting Angel fill in the blank, which judging by the vampire's deep frown, he did just fine.

A long heavy beat passed before Angel tried to continue where he left off. "I want to make things right, Doyle. I need you to tell me—how can I fix things? What do the Powers want me to do?"

"Ya can't fix things." Doyle replied bitterly, but then swallowed down the kneejerk resentment and tried to be a little more constructive. He had to remind himself, what had happened had happened for a reason. "But, if ya wanna be back on mission, it's simple enough. The Powers have never been real subtle about sending their messages—ya just have to start listening to 'em again. Fighting the good fight and all that."

"Right." Angel agreed, bobbing his head for emphasis. "So… have you had any visions lately?"

"All I've had is _blurred_ vision lately." Doyle answered dryly, taking another long sip from his coffee mug. "I'm thinking the Powers knew better than to try—probably would've killed me. And considering I already had an intense desire to meet my maker, they weren't likely to give me the satisfaction, yeah?"

"That's not funny, Doyle." Angel said darkly.

"Wasn't meant to be." Doyle retorted.

"I can't do any of this without you." Angel insisted, an unusual amount of weight held in his words. "And I don't just mean because you have the visions. I need you here. I always have."

Doyle merely nodded in reply. He knew what Angel meant and why he was saying it, and although he was touched by the sentiment, he wasn't feeling generous enough to return it.

Angel finally turned his head and looked directly at the man sitting beside him on the circular couch. "Forget the Powers—what do _you_ want me to do?"

Staring into the mug pressed between his palms, Doyle knew the answer to that question before it was asked. And he also knew it may not be possible as this point. "I want ya to make things right with the others—as much as possible, anyway." Silently, he added the part about certain things never being right, but he was positive Angel already knew that. "They deserve a bigger apology than I do—they never asked for this gig, they came willingly and they didn't deserve to be kicked to the curb like that. And, frankly, if they're still gonna be out there fighting, they'd be a helluva lot safer if they had us fighting by their sides, yeah?"

"I'm just not so sure they'll ever talk to me again, much less forgive me." Angel commented. "Which will make working for me… unlikely. To say the least."

"It's not gonna be easy, man. I won't lie." Doyle agreed. "It'll be a good long while 'til any of 'em can trust ya again. And even if ya can win over Wesley and Gunn, I highly doubt Cordelia will wanna come back."

Angel dropped his head in something resembling shame. "I'm sorry for that, too." He said sincerely. "Maybe if I apologize to her, it'll help. Maybe, y'know… she _will_ come back and you guys can work things out?"

"Or maybe that ship has long since sailed." Doyle completed the thought. "And that's the one part o' all this you're not responsible for. _That_ was all me. My decision, my mistake." He lifted a hand to his brow and massaged the tension that had settled there. "I thought I was doing right by protecting her. From me, from the demon… I was wrong. And it cost me. It cost both of us."

"I _am_ sorry." Angel repeated.

"I know y'are." Doyle replied, keeping his eyes shut and his hand in place. "But, do me a favor. Save it for the others."

"If you wanna talk about it…" Angel offered sullenly.

"No." Doyle said a little too loudly, his hand massaging his head a little harder as he felt a sudden spike in pain. "No, no, no!" The half-filled coffee mug in his hand crashed to the floor as a massive vision took ahold of his nervous system. He was vaguely conscious of Angel gripping him, so he wouldn't fall off the sofa and land on the hard floor.

Image after image assaulted Doyle's brain, and he felt it—the fear and the pain. The death…

He went slack as the mental images ceased and Angel let go, hovering over him with concern. "What did you see?"

The moment Doyle had regained control over his own body, he was already pushing himself up off the sofa. The residual vision migraine was nothing of consequence—not after what he'd just seen. "It's Cordy." He said, momentarily leaning on Angel for support and then immediately yanking him toward the front door and the car that was parked outside. "We have to get to her place. Fast!"

* * *

Cordelia rolled herself out of the kitchen, a small tray of food balanced on her lap. She actually had an appetite today, which was new and different for her.

Apparently, her trip to the shrink had done some good—in the very least, it helped remind her that no one could counsel her any better than she could counsel herself. And as down as she was right now, she knew eventually she'd be up again. That's the type of person she was. Wallowing indefinitely had never been her style, no matter how bad things got. And this was certainly as bad as life had ever gotten for her—if she could bounce back from this, there'd be no stopping her. The world would be hers to conquer.

She wasn't there quite yet, though. She was still planning to wallow a bit more for now, which was fine since she couldn't do much else, being wheelchair-bound and all. She wheeled herself into the living room and debated whether she should bother transferring herself onto the couch beside Clover who was pawing at one of the throw pillows, or if she should just remain in the chair. She opted for the latter, flipping on the television to its permanent place on the Lifetime network and lifting the fork from her tray to dig into the chicken stir-fry dish she'd heated in the microwave. Wesley and Gunn would be happy to know she'd finally decided to raid the fridge.

"Oh, Dennis, would you grab me the soy sauce, please?" She asked the empty air, and moments later the object she had requested came floating out of the kitchen and landed softly on the tray in front of her. There were definite perks to having a ghost around. "Thanks. I promise I'll only watch one sappy movie tonight, okay? Then you can switch over to ESPN."

C-R-A-S-H

Cordelia nearly leapt out of her wheelchair as the colorful stain glass window in the dining room imploded, and a formidable three-eyed demon tumbled into her apartment, sliding across the dining room table and landing at the foot of it. The tray of food dropped from her lap as she skidded toward Clover to lift the small cat protectively onto her lap. She searched the room for anything she could use as a weapon, but found it severely lacking. For once, she missed that dusty old weapons chest that had once occupied the corner of the room.

The demon lumbered toward her menacingly as a second three-eyed demon tumbled through the already-broken window. Although, she couldn't be entirely certain, seeing how she wasn't Wesley, she suspected her demon visitors were of the Skilosh species. The third eye was kind of a giveaway—and although Cordelia had been hooked up to a morphine drip while Wesley filled her in on the successful de-oculation of Stephanie Sharp, she had been fully conscious and sans bleeding gut wound when they'd identified the source of the third eye. So, yeah, she was pretty sure it was a Skilosh. She was also pretty pissed it had chosen the stain glass window for its grand entrance.

"You had to choose that window?!" She cried out toward the two beasts that were now fully focused on her. "That's the most expensive window in the entire apartment!"

The demons growled and lunged and she shut her eyes tightly, protectively clutching Clover in her arms as she waited for impact.

Impact, which never came.

"Grmmmph!" Something grunt-like, followed by a thud and crash, caused Cordelia to open one eye and take a peek at the reason for the lack of impact.

"Thanks, Dennis!" Doyle shouted, as he took a swing at one of the two Skilosh demons. The other one, was rolling down the hallway with a large vampire in a black trench coat on top of it.

Cordelia opened her other eye, and took in the whole scene. The front door was wide open, and it stood to reason that Dennis had done that to allow entry to her two rescuers—Angel and Doyle, who were now being tossed around like rag dolls by the ferocious Skilosh demons.

She saw Angel get to his feet, right before he tackled the Skilosh back to the ground and slammed a vase over its head. Meanwhile, Doyle had removed one of her trophies from the top of the mantle and was using it as a weapon—beating the Skilosh over the head with it.

Remembering that there actually was a weapon in the apartment, Cordelia backed herself toward the coat closet and opened the door. Inside, she saw the handle of her trusty little axe—the one that had once been responsible for nearly cracking open Joey's skull. She lifted it off the ground and turned back toward the two men, determining which one of them needed it more. Or, rather, determining which of them was most likely to catch said axe and use it effectively. "Angel!" She called, tossing the axe in the vampire's direction. "It's a Skilosh. Hack it to pieces!"

Angel caught the axe in mid air and brought it down into the skull of the Skilosh. He then yanked it out and did it again. And again. Until it was clear that the Skilosh wasn't going to get up. By that time, Doyle had gotten himself into a fairly precarious position, with his head looking like it was nearly ready to pop off his neck at the hands of the imposing creature that was attacking him. Cordelia felt an upward spike in her anxiety as she wondered why Doyle wasn't morphing into his spikes. He clearly needed them, and it wasn't like it was any big secret anymore. She was about to scream for him to do just that, when Angel yanked the Skilosh off of Doyle and hurled it out the front door like a giant Frisbee. The vampire then went racing out into the darkness, axe in hand, to finish the beast off.

Aside from some distance thuds and grunts out in the hallway, and a choking, sputtering sound emanating from Doyle's throat, a hush fell over the inside of the apartment. Cordelia swallowed heavily as she took in the destruction of her home. The shards of colored glass that were scattered across the floor and the dining table, the broken vase which lay several feet away from the table, the mangled trophy by the mouth of the fireplace, the spilled tray of food beside the couch and the sizable demon laying dead in front of her bedroom door.

Her mouth hung open as she mentally tallied up how much all this would cost her, not to mention the fact that she couldn't fix any of it herself, on account of being stuck in a wheelchair. She sure hoped Gunn was as handy as he claimed to be.

"Cordy, you okay?" Doyle's raspy voice, brought her eyes down to meet his. He was still on the floor, sitting upright, rubbing his bruised neck and focusing his compassionate seafoam green eyes solely on her. She felt her heart lurch in her chest at the sight of him.

"Yeah." She said, feeling detached from her body, and from the moment itself. It all felt like part of a dream. "I'm fine."

Clover jumped down off her lap and sprinted across the carpet toward Doyle, tackling him happily and beating her tiny paws against his chest. He grinned down at the tiny, fuzzy creature, rubbing its head affectionately. "Hey there, girl. I've missed ya."

 _She missed you, too._

The words were on the tip of Cordelia's tongue, but she bit them back, shaking herself back to her senses. The ones that were none too pleased to have her apartment in shambles, and her ex-boyfriend and former employer coming to her rescue like she was some kind of pathetic damsel.

Angel stumbled back in through the front door, the axe in his hand covered in demon blood. He kicked the front door closed, and let out an unnecessary puff of breath. "I finished off the other one—kicked it out a window at the end of the hall. Think it landed in a dumpster."

"What are you guys doing here?!" Cordelia demanded unhappily. Looking from one unwelcome guest to the other.

"We, uh… came to save you." Angel answered lamely, looking for a place to put down the axe, but realizing it was dirty, he held on to it instead.

Doyle lifted himself off the floor, cradling Clover in his arms as he stood. "I had a vision, darlin'. Of you being attacked by these here… whatever ya called 'em."

"Skilosh demons." She supplied, with a frown. "Okay, well, vision accomplished. Thanks for coming. You'd better be on your way."

Cordelia rolled herself toward the front door, reached for the doorknob and opened it for them to exit. She gestured toward the open door with a tight smile. "You can take _that_ with you." She clarified, pointing toward the dead demon on the floor.

Angel's brow furrowed as he looked down at the demon carcass and then looked over at Doyle with concern. Doyle was frowning deeply and shaking his head as he leaned down and released Clover onto the floor. He then took a step forward, and pointed his own finger at the dead demon splayed out on her rug. "We can't just leave—not until we know why these things attacked ya."

Biting her lip momentarily, and closing her eyes to block out the man whose face still pained her, she responded curtly. "I know why they attacked me, okay? It was a case—Wesley removed demon spawn from the back of a little girl's head. The spawn in question was a third eye. _Those_ _things_ , also sporting the three-eyed-look, which I don't think is a fashion statement. Let's just say, that's probably daddy—or mommy. Hard to tell with these guys, but you get the point."

"We'd better call Wesley." Angel said, striding across the room toward the kitchen to pick up the phone and do exactly that.

Cordelia sighed heavily, wishing Angel and Doyle would just leave already, but also knowing Angel was right. If these things had come after her, there was a good chance they were also after Wesley and Gunn. "Try the office first—he's probably there. Number's on the fridge."

"What about Gunn?" Doyle wondered, from where he stood in the living room. She apprehensively looked in his direction and was relieved to find that his eyes were averted away from her. He looked every bit as uncomfortable being in her apartment as she felt having him there. So, at least they were on the same page there. "Would he be at the office, too, or is there some other way to reach him?"

"He always checks in eventually." She said simply, and then added a not-so-veiled dig. "He's _dependable_ like that."

Angel hung up the phone in the kitchen, and came back through the dining area shaking his head with frustration. "No answer. At either number."

Looking back down at the three-eyed monstrosity and its friend who'd just tried to put an end to her life, Cordelia felt a wave of panic for her unreachable friends.

"Don't worry. We'll track 'em down." Doyle assured her.

Cordelia still sat beside the front door, which remained open and she made the only decision she could make under the circumstances. "You bet we will." She said defiantly, earning two very surprised looks from the men currently occupying her apartment. "What? Don't give me those looks. Wesley and Gunn are _my_ teammates, remember? Not yours. If they need warning or saving or anything-ing, then you bet your asses I'm going to be the one doing it." She stared them both down fiercely, before adding a caveat. "Since I'm currently mobiley-challenged, I'll _let_ you help me. If you want to."

The two bobbing heads before her left no doubt that they'd do just that. She clumsily yanked off the terry cloth bathrobe she was wearing over her comfy sweats and ratty old sweater. This certainly wasn't her most glamorous look ever—pretty much the opposite of what you'd want to look like when faced with your ex-boyfriend or anyone else on the planet. But, none of that mattered now. There was a job to do, and she intended to do it.

"Alright, let's go." Angel said, moving toward the open doorway, and crossing the threshold, with Doyle several steps behind him. "We'll pass your office first—check for clues, leave a note in case either of them check in."

Doyle came to a full stop, gesturing for Cordelia to exit before him. She sat up as straight as she could, bracing herself internally for whatever the rest of the night entailed—counting the seconds until she could be rid of Doyle. And Angel, too, for that matter. She wanted both of them gone, so she could go back to her private mending, with none of the emotional turmoil their collective presence stirred up inside her.

She began to roll herself through the open doorway and into the hall, but paused for a moment to clarify something over her shoulder. "Don't touch me." She addressed her ex, in no uncertain terms.

"I wasn't—" He began.

"I mean. _At_ _all_." She interrupted his objection, raising a warning finger to the man who hovered mere inches from the back of her chair. "If I need help getting into the car, if I need help getting _out_ of it. If I need anything at all—I don't want it coming from you."

Being in the same room as him, she could barely handle. Touching him, being close to him… that was out of the question.

There was a slight pause, and she could imagine the look on Doyle's face—that kicked puppy thing he did so often, masked by an attempt to be courteous. "I'm sure Angel will give ya a hand if ya need it." He responded evenly, his voice not betraying anything, but she was certain her declaration wounded him a little. If for no other reason, than he was so accustomed to being the one to help her, whatever the need. That's the way it had always been, even before they'd started dating.

It couldn't be that way anymore.

"I probably won't need it." She clarified. "I do fine on my own."

Rolling herself fully out of the apartment, Cordelia continued down the hallway, feeling Doyle walking sluggishly at her wheels and hearing the door to her place shutting securely behind them.


	45. Epiphany, Pt 3

**"Epiphany," Part III**

"Well, I'm not gonna lie, I'm glad someone else was impregnated with demon spawn this time." Cordelia was leaning over the back of Wesley's head, which was blinking up at her. "That had to hurt."

"It did. Very much so." Wesley agreed, finally pulling himself up off the floor and brushing the dust off his pants. Dust that had been caused from half the house collapsing as Angel drove a pickup truck through the side of it. At least the Sharps weren't likely to sue, under the circumstances… on account of them all being dead.

"No worries, man. We've got some of that de-oculation powder back at the office." Gunn assured his friend. "You'll be back to just the four eyes in no time."

Doyle was standing several feet away, hands sunk deep inside his pockets, watching the others collect themselves, trying not to read too much into Cordelia's callous "demon spawn" comment—she couldn't possibly have meant it the way he was taking it. No matter how angry she was at him, she'd never take such a cheap shot. No, she had to be referring to the Haxil demon spawn. Still, Doyle couldn't help but feel a little wounded by her words, along with the void that now existed between the two of them.

Meanwhile, there was an easy camaraderie that existed between she and her current co-workers. A camaraderie that didn't extend to Doyle and Angel, which was understandable. It was still hard to stand there, being the odd man out. Odd demon out. Along with the odd vampire out, who was standing awkwardly on the other side of the room, idly inspecting the bodies of the Skilosh demons he'd just run over. _Where did Angel get that pickup truck anyway?_

Last Doyle had seen Angel, he was taking on a group of Skilosh demons alone in the middle of a public street, and he'd insisted that Doyle continue on with Gunn—who'd they found at the office—and Cordelia to save Wesley, who had been led into a trap by their former clients, the Sharps. It had been a tough call—Doyle didn't want to leave Angel without any backup, but his instinct was to follow Cordelia, whether he was "allowed" to help her not. The truth was, Gunn probably needed Doyle's backup more than Angel, so Doyle had taken Angel's car and followed Gunn's truck to the Sharp residence—where the three rescuers had quickly become hostages.

Until Angel showed up and saved them all. Right in the nick of time.

Cordelia wheeled herself backwards, as Gunn lent a helping shoulder to Wesley, who was not only in possession of a brand new third eye, but also a multitude of cuts and bruises, courtesy of the disgruntled demons. The two men limped toward the brand new exit in the side of Sharp's mansion, leaving Cordelia to navigate herself to the proper front door. Doyle knew she would need help getting down the steps, and probably needed additional help getting into one of the two vehicles parked out front that hadn't been used as a battering ram. Doyle also knew better than to offer any assistance, choosing instead to hang back until the coast was clear.

Angel, apparently, hadn't quite gotten the memo. "Let me get that for you." He said, jumping forward to open the front door and then pointing to the small set of stairs leading down to the front walk. "I can carry you to the car."

"Gunn!" Cordelia shouted, wheeling herself to the edge of the top step, dismissing Angel without so much as a gesture. "Can I get a little help here?"

Doyle watched from inside the house as Angel's shoulders slumped with the rejection. And he felt an irrational surge of jealousy as Gunn came to her aid, lifting her out of her wheelchair and carrying her to his truck. He knew there was nothing to actually be jealous of, nor did he have any right to feel such a thing, but at that moment, he was jealous of anyone and anything allowed to be closer to her than he was… which was everyone and everything.

Turning away from the scene, Doyle began sifting through the wreckage inside the house, waiting until he heard Gunn's truck pull away, before he finally dared to head toward the front door. There he found Angel pouting alone on the front stoop, looking longingly into the distance. "I really screwed things up." The vampire noted.

"Yeah, ya did." Doyle agreed. "We _both_ did. And I think it's pretty clear they're not willing to work with us again."

"So, what do we do now?" Angel wondered.

"Ah… if dating Cordelia all that time taught me anything, it's that groveling can be quite an effective strategy." Doyle replied with a mirthless chuckle. "If we wanna work with 'em, we're gonna have to ask if they have any job openings. Maybe even beg."

"You're saying we should go work at the new place?" Angel asked with surprise. "Just leave the hotel behind?"

"If that's what it takes." Doyle confirmed. "But, I'm thinking they'll come around on that point eventually—it's less about location and more about control. Think ya can hand the reins over?"

Angel didn't answer right away and Doyle was worried he'd balk for a moment, but instead the vampire nodded slowly. "Whatever it takes." He answered, taking the steps down to the front walk and making his way to the convertible parked haphazardly across the front lawn, where Doyle had dumped it.

"By the way man, where'd ya get that thing?" Doyle asked, hiking a thumb toward the truck sticking halfway out of the Sharp residence, as he headed down the steps behind Angel.

"Oh, that's Lindsey's." Angel commented offhandedly. "I borrowed it after he tried to run me over."

Doyle's brows shot upward in surprise. "Why'd he do a thing like that? Aside from the fact that he hates ya and always has."

"He's in love with Darla." Angel replied simply, opening up the car door and plopping into the driver's seat.

Sliding into the passenger side of the car, Doyle chortled as he considered that sentence. "And what did ya do to the fella for the whole running ya over bit? He missing another hand?"

"I just borrowed his car." Angel promised, starting the engine of the convertible and backing the car out onto the street. "Lucky for him I had an epiphany."

* * *

Doyle followed Angel through the front door to The…? Come to think of it, he had no idea what they were calling themselves these days. The flyers were kind of vague on that point, as was the sign on the door, which listed their business hours and little else.

Figuratively, both Angel and Doyle had their hats in their hands, although neither one of them were big on wearing hats. Actually, that wasn't entirely true—Doyle did love himself a good hat every now and then. He made a mental note to look through all those boxes of his and see if he still had his favorite hat somewhere. It may have been a casualty of Cordelia's incineration pile.

Wesley rose from behind the desk, with Gunn standing at his right shoulder, arms crossed in silent defense. Cordelia sat to the left of the desk, in her wheelchair—the power of her gaze as strong as ever. Her lack of enthusiasm at seeing the two men in the open doorway spoke volumes, and Doyle started to regret convincing Angel to do this. Perhaps, it was selfish of Doyle to want to join forces with their old teammates—this was probably just an excuse for him to be near Cordelia again. But, perhaps, that wasn't what _Cordelia_ wanted or needed. Perhaps, she still needed time. And space. Either way, it was too late now.

"I'm sorry." Angel said, and Doyle almost had to cringe. While he didn't doubt the sincerity of the words, he had heard them fall far too many times from the vampire's lips in the last twenty-four hours to hold any actual meaning at this point. This was never going to be solved with words, anyway.

"Angel, before you say any more I think I should tell you, we've all discussed this, and none of us are ready just yet—" Wesley began to let them down easy, but Angel cut in, making sure Wesley and the others knew just how serious he was about making amends.

"It's okay, Wesley." Angel interjected. "I don't want you to come back and work for me."

"Oh." Wesley said, not hiding his surprise by the unexpected turn in the conversation. "I see."

"I wanna work for you." Angel continued, and then gestured to Doyle who stood silently behind him, staring at the floor. "We both do. We want to join the—um, your agency. What's it called again?"

Doyle wanted to look up at Cordelia's face to gauge her reaction, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He needed to wait and let Angel do the talking. The chips would fall where they were going to fall.

"You guys wanna work for _us_?" Gunn asked in disbelief. "Didn't see that coming."

"Why?" Wesley asked curiously, tilting his head and aiming a skeptical gaze in Angel's direction. "What's changed?"

"Nothing's changed—I just… I had an epiphany." Angel explained lamely. "You're still fighting evil, and that's what I wanna do. I believe I can help."

Wesley exchanged a loaded glance with Gunn first and then Cordelia, both of whom looked like they had reservations. The lanky Brit cleared his throat and addressed his two co-workers. "Well… I do suppose it'd be useful to have a direct connection to the Powers That Be."

"Makes sense to me." Gunn agreed.

"And we could certainly use the additional… _office_ _space_ that the hotel would provide." Wesley continued. "Not to mention the expanded library and advanced weaponry."

There was a longer pause before Cordelia added her own voice to the mix. "And the car."

Gunn huffed. "Hey, don't be dissing my truck. She may not be as shiny as Angel's ride, but that old girl's been there when it counted."

Cordelia ignored Gunn's objections, keeping her fierce eyes firmly planted on Angel, and only Angel. " _If_ you come work for us—how do we know we can trust you?" Doyle wondered if at any point she'd ask that question of him, but she didn't appear to even care he was in the room. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. He would've liked to think she didn't need to ask such a question of Doyle, knowing that she could always trust him. He just wasn't so sure that's how she saw it anymore.

"I guess I'll just have to earn your trust again." Angel responded.

"We did have trouble settling on a name." Wesley admitted. "Perhaps, we should consider the value in reverting to the name of our former business… Assuming we are all in agreement." Once again he sought the eyes of both Gunn and Cordelia for their decision on the matter.

Doyle thought Gunn looked open enough to the idea, but Cordelia was much harder to read. Much, much harder. He thought there may have been a subtle nod on her part, but then he became quite distracted as a silent alarm bell went off in his head. He stumbled backward, nearly knocked off his feet. "Aaaaaaaaah!"

As his brain was sliced and diced by visions of a hideous demon rising somewhere north of the city, Doyle held on to his head for dear life, waiting until he could once again see the images of reality in front of his eyes. His head pulsated and pounded, and he kept his eyes tightly shut even after the vision had released him. "Think that's the Powers' way of saying they approve." He gasped aloud, more to himself more than the others.

Angel had successfully caught Doyle before he went crashing backward through the glass-plated front door. And it was Angel that ushered him forward, easing him into one of the two empty chairs in front of Wesley's desk. Doyle took the seat gratefully, and rubbed at his forehead as he acclimated himself to the old familiar feeling of having multiple pairs of eyes waiting on his interpretation of the messages from above.

"Big nasty thing rising in Topanga. Looks like a housing project of some sort. Just west o' the freeway. There's a Denny's across the street, if that helps." Doyle described the vague location as best he could.

"That helps." Angel assured him. He eagerly looked up at the other three occupants of the room. "My car's out front. Ready to go."

"Let's get moving, then." Wesley agreed with mildly tempered excitement, circling around the desk with Gunn at his heels, only stopping momentarily to yank a crossbow off a counter-top.

Gunn, too, grabbed his special homemade axe from where it was leaning against a wall behind the desk. "This thing is toast!" He exclaimed. "Assuming the slice and dice method will work."

Doyle sat hunched in the chair for an extra beat. His head was still throbbing, more so than usual. In fact, the last one had hit hard and lingered long as well, but he'd fought through it for Cordelia's sake. All the pain in the world wouldn't have kept him from rescuing her.

"Doyle?" Wesley's voice cut back in, and Doyle raised his weary head. Judging by the other man's expression, it wasn't the first time his name had been spoken. "Are you alright?"

"Maybe… Doyle can work on ID-ing this thing?" Angel suggested. He'd halted at the front door, and apparently identified his friend's not-so-subtle distress. Either that or he was meddling in a way that he shouldn't be. "If slicing and dicing doesn't work, we'll need a plan B."

"Oh yes, that's a good point." Wesley agreed, catching on to one or both of Angel's ulterior motives. "There's also the matter of proper disposal methods, which we'll surely need, if this creature is as large as Doyle's indicated."

Doyle was frozen in his chair, blatantly put on the spot. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Cordelia slowly wheel herself behind the desk, and begin to straighten up the few items that were sprawled out across it. He knew her well enough to know she was preparing to execute the extreme cold shoulder, should the two of them be left alone together.

If looks could kill, Angel would have been a dead(er) man for putting Doyle in this awkward position. On the other hand, there was something to be said about pulling off the Band-Aid. He'd need to speak to Cordelia at some point; now was as good a time as any. Pounding head or no pounding head. And perhaps, _not_ having his head literally pounded into the pavement, was a wise idea.

"Wesley's the boss, yeah?" Doyle finally relented, rubbing the side of his head to alleviate the continued ache. "I'll stick with research duty tonight, if ya feel it's best."

Wesley seemed surprised by Doyle's christening of him as the new "boss," but once the shock subsided, he was clearly pleased by the title. He puffed his chest up and a small smile hinted at the edge of his lips. He slung the crossbow over his shoulder proudly. "This sounds like a very reasonable delegation of duty. We'll be sure to check in after we've slain the creature."

Doyle nodded back at Wesley and watched as the three eager heroes disappeared out the front door and to Angel's car waiting at the curb. The door closed behind them, and Doyle finally turned to face the only other occupant of the room, who looked anything but pleased to have company. Talk about looks that could kill.

"How transparent can you get, huh? _Oh, whoa is me with my big, bad migraine_." Cordelia mocked him coldly. "You have visions all the time, and it's never stopped you from fighting."

"Hey, I didn't ask to be stuck behind with the books." He defended himself. "In my experience, they don't generally help with the migraines. Speaking of which, ya got any aspirin 'round here? Or better yet, whiskey?"

She ignored his request, choosing to continue with her scolding. "I also think it's pretty rude that you assumed _Wesley_ was the boss here."

"Ah, ya got me there." He spoke to her candidly, dropping his hand away from his head. He supposed he shouldn't hold his breath for that aspirin.

"You should've gone with them." She said curtly, dropping her eyes to the paperwork stacked in the middle of her desk and pretending to be interested in anything _other_ than the man across from her. This was an old trick of hers he was quite accustomed to—her way of building and maintaining the invisible wall between them. The wall that protected her from getting too close. "I'm not interested in having some long, drawn-out, angsty conversation. Not now, not ever."

"I don't want that either." Doyle reassured her, leaning his arms on the edge of the desk across from her. "But it wasn't Wesley's approval I came here looking for, yeah?"

She had picked up a pencil and was making small notations on the paperwork in front of her, but she paused at his words and lifted her eyes to give him a wary look. If he wanted to work with her, he had to make her believe it was safe to do so. And she'd only believe it was safe if he gave her the space she needed—and the control.

"This is your company. If ya don't want me being a part of it, I won't." He said simply, opening his hands in silent question even before he officially posed one. "So the only thing we needa discuss here, is this—are ya willing to work with me again?"

He saw the conflict in her face and the subtle movement in her throat as she swallowed. The clock on the wall was ticking away, much louder than it had any right to be. It reminded Doyle of his broken watch sitting on his dresser back at the hotel, not making so much as a peep.

"What if I say no?" She asked quietly, observing him closely for a reaction.

Doyle did his best to remain unaffected, keeping his voice amicable and his expression relatively neutral. "That'll be a bit of a challenge. I'm still the lucky guy with the visions—not to mention, a resident of the hotel. But…" He paused, making sure he'd captured those hazel eyes of hers with his contrite green ones. "I'll respect your feelings on the matter. If ya don't want me around, I'll make myself scarce. Ya won't even know I'm there." He ventured a small grin with the slightest flash of his dimple, trying to add a drop of levity to the heaviness of the moment. "I would, however, appreciate ya not charging me for _every_ vision."

Cordelia said nothing at first, dropping her eyes back to the desk in front of her as she mulled over his proposition, clearly considering it from more than one angle. "You couldn't afford us." She muttered, only the slightest hint of a joke could be found in her words, but that was something.

"Ah… not unless I call up a few o' my old gambling buddies." Doyle jested. "But then, I'd probably have to hire ya to get 'em all off my back again."

She didn't even crack a smile at that flop of a joke. And after what seemed like a small eternity, she exhaled a long breath and raised her eyes back to meet his. "We're professionals, aren't we? We should be able to put aside our differences and work together for the common good."

"O'course." Doyle agreed, as a spout of relief opened inside him. He hadn't been entirely certain she'd agree to him joining the company; he'd been silently letting himself down easy. Imagining what it would be like to navigate his duty to Angel around a business he wouldn't be a part of, but she had mercifully let him off the hook. "Just like when all this started, yeah?"

"Co-workers." Cordelia added swiftly, pointing her pencil in the air for emphasis. "Two people sharing office space and a similar job description. That's it. Not friends or… anything."

"Yeah." Doyle agreed once more, a little less enthusiastically than the first time. His heart sank. It wasn't surprising to hear her say such a thing. But, that didn't mean it didn't hurt. He wasn't even sure what it meant to be something to her without being _anything_. "The work's the important thing."

"Welcome aboard." Cordelia chirped, nodding toward the bookshelf against the wall without looking up from her paperwork. "The books are over there—you should probably start with one of the thicker demon indexes."


	46. A Toast To Joyce Summers

**"A Toast to Joyce Summers"**

Doyle leaned over the railing of the second floor balcony, taking in the cavernous room below. It was eerily quiet, especially considering Doyle knew damn well there was someone down there. Someone much too human to be able to maneuver around in the dark.

"Wesley?" Doyle called down into the darkness. "That you?""

A loud bang and crash and a mumbled "oof" echoed up from below, confirming Doyle's suspicions. Not that he needed confirmation. He already knew he was right—no matter how much he'd had to drink tonight, his Brachen nose didn't lie.

Screwing the cap of the whiskey bottle back on, Doyle pushed himself off the railing and made his way toward the main staircase. He wouldn't have dared tried those stairs without his enhanced night vision. That was a surefire way to land at the bottom with a broken neck—the kind that couldn't be twisted back into place. While Doyle could see well enough not to stumble, he'd spent most of the evening alone with his pal Jameson, which is why he opted to grip the bannister as he descended. Before he'd reached the bottom, a light flicked on near the reception area, casting a helpful glow across the space.

"Doyle." Wesley greeted, popping up from the behind the reception area, and looking more than a little flustered. "I, uh… wasn't sure you were here. So sorry to disturb you."

"Ya didn't." Doyle responded, continuing across the lobby, not stopping until he could lean his elbows against the front counter. Truth was, he could do with a bit of company, even if that company was Wesley. "I thought you'd gone to Sunnydale. To pay your respects and all that."

"Oh, yes, well…" Wesley cleared his throat uncomfortably, stepping closer to the opposite side of the counter to better see Doyle in the dim light. "I asked Cordelia to extend my condolences to Buffy. I didn't really know her mother… and, truthfully, I wasn't sure my presence would be of any comfort. Quite the opposite, in fact." Wesley paused, eying the half-empty bottle of whiskey that Doyle had placed on the counter. "Angel couldn't attend the funeral, I presume? But I imagine he is planning to see Buffy…?"

"Started driving as soon as the sun went down." Doyle confirmed, noticing Wesley's eyes on his bottle. "Ya wanna drink?"

Wesley continued to stare at the amber liquid, clearly giving it more thought than he ought to. "I probably shouldn't." He answered contritely. "I have a lot of work to do in the morning—moving, packing. Getting the office in order once again. It's a new era for Angel Investigations, and I, for one, am quite excited by the possibilities."

Doyle lifted his brows in semi-agreement as he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and then surprised Wesley by moving around the counter to grab a coffee mug from one of the shelves. "Ah… come on, man. One drink." He insisted pouring some of the contents of his bottle into the mug and plopping it on the counter in front of Wesley. "Consider it congratulations on your new leadership role here in the company."

A flattered smile spread across Wesley's lips as he raised the mug in the air in cheers, while Doyle raised the bottle in return. "Well, in that case... I do look forward to continuing in this endeavor. To teamwork." Wesley sipped from the mug and coughed uncontrollably as he swallowed the burning liquid.

Doyle chuckled and raised the bottle to his lips, pausing before he drank. "And to Joyce Summers." He said sincerely. "I never had the pleasure, but from what Angel told me, she was a helluva woman." With that, Doyle took his own swig straight from the bottle; he could've been drinking water for all the reaction he gave. "Real tough break that girl's got."

"Who? Buffy?" Wesley asked, having taken a second sip from his mug, and now desperately trying to clear his throat in order to regain his normal speaking voice.

"She's already hadda grow up way too fast." Doyle confirmed with a nod. "Broke up with the love of her life not too long ago. Spends the majority of her time saving the world. Now, on top o' everything else, she's lost the one person who was there for 'er unconditionally. I know the girl's strong, but even the strongest gotta feel like crumbling sometimes, yeah?"

Wesley placed his mug of alcohol back down on the counter, and gave Doyle a meaningful look. "Perhaps, the same could be said of another girl I know."

Giving Wesley a weary look, Doyle took another swig from the bottle before placing it down on the counter beside Wesley's mug. "I've been meaning to thank ya—you were there for Cordy when she needed ya." Doyle swallowed hard. "Which is more than I can say for me."

"There's no need to thank me." Wesley assured him. "I wasn't there for her out of obligation, Doyle. I was there because she's my friend, and I care a great deal about what happens to her."

"She's lucky to have ya." Doyle commented, keeping his eyes pointed anywhere but at Wesley's face. Not sure where this conversation was going. "Gunn, too."

"I'd like to think I'm your friend, too." Wesley continued, once again eying Doyle's bottle of whiskey that sat beside them on the counter top. "That you won't hesitate to come to me. Whether it be regarding information from the Powers That Be… or something of a more personal nature." He said with a slight nod to the bottle. "Anything at all."

"You're taking this whole boss thing real serious-like, yeah?" Doyle remarked, caught somewhere between being impressed and being insulted at the veiled reference to Doyle's apparent drinking problem.

"Shouldn't I be?" Wesley asked in return.

Doyle lifted the bottle back up off the counter and screwed the top back in place, shoving it safely up under the crook of his arm. "Some of us aren't as strong as others." He mumbled as he turned his back and started to make his way around the counter and toward the staircase beyond.

"For the record, Doyle, you're one of the strongest people I know." Wesley's words took Doyle by surprise, and he faltered just a bit. "You have to be to see what you see and do what you do."

Pausing fully, Doyle craned his neck around and gave Wesley one more curious glance. "Ya never told me what ya were doing here at this hour anyway."

"Oh, right. I was just, um…" Wesley went back to his original flustered behavior from earlier. "Measuring. To see how much space there is to expand my library… and possibly for some new wall art."

A slow smile spread across Doyle's face as he grasped Wesley's meaning. "You're taking Angel's office, aren't ya?"

"Yes, I do believe I am." Wesley admitted proudly, lifting the mug from the counter and tossing back the remainder of the contents cheerfully. _Cough. Cough_.


	47. Disharmony, Pt 1

**"Disharmony," Part I**

"Why isn't there any whipped cream?" Cordelia demanded, lifting the plastic lid off the over-priced and under-caffeinated beverage Angel had placed down on the reception counter, along with Wesley's Black Tea and Gunn's Mocha Cappucino. She frowned into the cup. "I always get whipped cream."

"Uh… you ordered a non-fat skinny vanilla latte." Angel replied, scrambling for the post-it note he'd stuck in one of his pockets with her drink order.

"That's right." She confirmed, still leveling him with a dissatisfied stare.

"Wouldn't whipped cream have made it, y'know… _non_ -non-fat?"

"Yours is only to fetch, not to pass judgment on my drink order." She said smartly, taking the inadequate drink off the counter and limping cautiously back toward her desk. Although, she was doing much better and no longer needed a wheelchair, she still wasn't restored to full-speed. In fact, she was supposed to be using the cane that was propped up against the side of her desk, but she had a tendency to hobble around the confines of the office space without it.

Doyle snickered from behind his newspaper. He sat at a safe distance from the reception counter, trying to remain somewhat invisible. Now that Angel Investigations was back up and sputtering at the Hyperion, Doyle had been making himself as discreet as possible without being outright absent. It was a fine line, made even finer by the fact that he hadn't had a single vision in weeks. Under normal circumstances, that would be a blessing, but when looking for any excuse to leave the office… not so much.

Cordelia was, of course, stuck on desk-duty until she fully recuperated from her physical injuries, which meant fieldwork was the best way to avoid her. Not that he was avoiding her, per se, it was just easier to be far than near. He was still getting accustomed to this new arrangement of theirs—seeing each other nearly every day, and yet being _nothing_ to each other. Nothing but working professionals with shared office space.

It felt unnatural, to say the least. Doyle couldn't deny that. It was instinct to want to greet her in a familiar way, and share a laugh over their morning brew. He couldn't do that now. He had to keep things as professional—translation: reserved—as possible. He wasn't used to being so formal with her. He wasn't used to keeping his distance. Back when they'd first met, he'd barely known her and he'd spent the entire workday glued to her side, flirting shamelessly; she would roll her eyes and tease him back and eat up every bit of his attention. It was their way, and he missed it. Well, actually, he missed a whole lot more than that.

They had a new way now. And rather than screw up the fragile peace between them, he opted to err on the side of caution. Which was avoidance, basically.

Sure, Cordelia had given Doyle permission to work there, but that didn't mean she actually wanted him around. Certainly she didn't want him hovering within the sphere of her personal workspace. Of that, he had no doubt. And if her hostile treatment of Angel was any indication, Doyle was much, _much_ safer on the other end of the lobby or hiding out in the courtyard with a cigarette between his lips.

Doyle peeked over the top of his paper at the slumping vampire at the front counter, who'd been jumping through hoops, trying to get back in the good graces of his former employees; Cordelia in particular, as she was quite gifted at grudge-holding. It wasn't so much that Angel was groveling as he was being _forced_ to grovel.

"Why do I have to get the coffee?" Angel whined to Wesley, who had come out of the office formerly belonging to Angel to retrieve his own hot beverage. "Do you know how hard it is to find a Starbucks with a shady entrance?"

"I have an umbrella you could borrow." Wesley remarked, lifting his tea from the tray and taking a sip. He smacked his lips together and made a face. "Next time, not so much lemon."

"What about Doyle?" Angel continued with his griping. "I don't see him going on any coffee runs."

That caused Doyle to drop the newspaper into his lap. "What _about_ me, man?" He demanded with annoyance, reminding Angel that he was present to hear his friend throwing him under the proverbial bus. "I don't even own a car. But, if you've reconsidered your stance on lending me yours, then I'd be happy to get the next round of pick-me-ups. Y'know how I relish any chance to boost the team morale."

Angel gave Doyle a major side-eye—indicating that he not only disapproved of the excessive brown-nosing, but also had not changed his stance on the issue of Doyle borrowing his car. Which was silly, because Doyle had borrowed Angel's car lots of times, and only ever ran it into a wrought iron gate once. That was ages ago, and since then Doyle's driving record was spotless. His _parking_ record, on the other hand, maybe left a little to be desired.

Gunn had now arrived at the reception counter, snatching his mocha from the cardboard cup holder. "Doyle ain't on errand-boy duty 'cause we were in the trenches with that dude." He took a long sip of his drink with a satisfied grin. "You fight a dragon with someone, you're bonded for _life_."

"I think what Gunn is trying to say, is you shouldn't be comparing yourself to anyone else on the team." Wesley explained with more than a hint of amusement. There was no question that he enjoyed putting Angel in his place. "There are no small jobs, Angel. Only small people."

"Uh huh." Angel agreed dully, enjoying his new place in the hierarchy considerably less than everyone else.

Wesley moved back toward his office and nodded for Angel to follow him in. "Actually, while we're on the topic of employee relations, would you mind stepping into my office for a moment? I think we're overdue for a little chat about _respect_ in the workplace, and _appreciation_ for one's co-workers."

Doyle observed the mildly pained expression on Angel's face as his shoulders drooped and he slowly rounded the reception counter, heading into Wesley's office like a schoolboy invited in to see the Principal. The door shut behind them, and Doyle snorted out loud. Wesley sure was enjoying his new found power.

There was a time when Doyle would have taken issue with the prissy former-Watcher being in charge, but under the circumstances, he could think of no one better suited for the role. Cordelia liked to boss people around, but he knew she didn't want the responsibility of being the boss. Gunn was lowest man on the totem pole, better at battle plans than business plans, so he wasn't likely to argue the point. And Doyle had no interest in a leadership role for himself. He had enough on his plate, between his general messenger duties, and rewriting the course of Angel's future. The last thing he needed was everyone looking to him for _orders_. Not to mention, Doyle didn't exactly have the strongest work ethic of the bunch—really, it was better that a killjoy like Wesley be the responsible one, or else the whole place might go to pot.

He lifted his paper and went back to reading the sports page. It didn't have quite the same thrill when he had nothing invested. Maybe he should give Ernie Nellins a call, find out if bygones could be bygones and see if he could get a little action on the Vikings, just like the good ol' days. Then again, he had gotten used to the part where he _didn't_ get his ass handed to him every time his team of choice lost. So, maybe he shouldn't be calling Ernie after all—

"Doyle?"

His head snapped up in surprise and he began hastily folding up the newspaper to get it out of his way. Cordelia had made her away across the lobby and now stood before him, leaning her weight heavily against her cane. Her other hand was extended outward, offering him a small slip of paper.

"You have a message." She explained. The notepaper was still hovering there in her fingertips and it took him another few seconds to process the fact that he was supposed to _take_ the paper from her, which he did slowly and carefully. "It's from Harriet. It was on the machine."

"Ah… thanks." He said weakly, looking down at Cordelia's bubbly handwriting on the small note, without bothering to read it. He didn't need to—he knew why Harriet was calling. And he hoped she hadn't gotten too specific in her answering machine message.

Cordelia dropped her hand to her side, but didn't move right away. "She didn't sound pleased. Something about her leaving a number of messages and you never calling her back."

Doyle swallowed hard at Cordelia's voice, relaying Harry's frustrated message matter-of-factly. Although, there was nothing hostile in her demeanor, Doyle could hear the subtext that may or may not have actually been there. He lifted the phone message and waved it in front of him. "I'll be sure to call her this time, yeah?"

That was a lie. He had no intention of calling Harriet back anytime soon. She would just chew him out for missing the doctor's appointment she'd made for him. Someday he'd have to apologize for blowing her off, but for now, avoidance was his best play.

He seemed to be using that tactic a lot lately, although based on the fact that Cordelia was standing two feet in front of him, it didn't work nearly as effectively when the person you were avoiding was in the same room as you—no matter how big that room was.

"She also sounded worried." Cordelia noted with a slight question to her voice, but again, Doyle couldn't be sure if the question was really there or if he was imagining it.

He merely nodded in reply, dropping his eyes to the floor. He felt the shame creep into his chest. He didn't want Harriet to be worried about him—he silently chastised himself for having involved her in the first place. That had been a stupid move made in a moment of weakness. Unfortunately, that too was a strategy he'd been implementing all too often these days. Stupidity. Weakness.

Cordelia shifted her weight, preparing to begin her slow journey back to the other end of the lobby. "Oh, and…" He looked back up at her, finding her lingering presence to be a promising sign. A sign that she may, in fact, want to open up the lines of communication between them for more than just a passing phone message. "You really shouldn't be getting personal calls on the company line."

Or not.

With those parting words, Cordelia retreated to the safety of her desk, leaving Doyle with his haphazardly-folded newspaper in his lap and an unwanted phone message.

On second thought, he probably was going to have to call Harriet back this time. If he didn't, she'd just keep trying. And next time, Cordelia might actually be there to answer the phone, rather than simply retrieving the message from the machine. He sighed heavily as he shoved the slip of paper in his shirt pocket, stood up, and tossed the newspaper under his arm. He glanced over at Cordelia who was just making her way around the reception counter and back to her desk. She sure didn't let that cane slow her down.

Wesley couldn't have been more mistaken when he'd commented on Doyle's strength. It was Cordelia who was the strong one. She didn't let _anything_ slow her down. Meanwhile, Doyle was still stuck in place, figuring out which direction to try and move.

* * *

Doyle stubbed out his cigarette on the side of one of the planters and then flicked it away, pushing open the glass door that led back into the Hyperion lobby. As soon as he was inside, he heard the raised voices and considered retreating back into the placidity of the courtyard. And yet his legs kept driving him forward, until he could see the two individuals facing off in front of the reception counter.

"I said I don't want your help!" Cordelia said sharply. She was balancing a sizeable box under one arm and leaning against her cane with the other. Doyle could understand why Angel had offered to take the box from her, not wishing to see her cause any unnecessary strain on her still-healing body… but he also understood why Cordelia would refuse such help from Angel, in particular. It was her way. "And, do me a favor, stop trying to make small talk. You're terrible at it! Just get used to the fact that we are _not_ friends."

"We're not?" Angel asked, reflexively reaching out for the box, as it began to slip from underneath Cordelia's arm. She defiantly yanked it further away from him, more than willing to let it crash to the ground before allowing Angel to assist her.

"No, we're not!" Cordelia bit back at the vampire in front of her. "We _used to be_ friends. At least, I _thought_ we were, until you decided I was expendable!"

Doyle had fully entered the lobby by this time, and saw that both Wesley and Gunn were present at other locations in the room, also observing the confrontation between Angel and Cordelia. Neither one of them looked terribly surprised by Cordelia's declaration; she had probably expressed these thoughts to them on many occasions throughout the past several months. Because, unlike Doyle or Angel, Gunn and Wesley—they _were_ still her friends. They had stood by her in her most difficult hour; that was what real friends should do.

"I was trying to—" Angel began, still eyeing the box that was slowly sliding out of Cordelia's grasp. But, she was furious now, not even noticing that her box of items was on its way to the floor.

"If you say you were trying to protect me, I _will_ kick you in the shins!" She barked back at him, and had she not had one arm precariously around a box and the other firmly gripping her cane, she probably would've pointed an accusatory finger at Angel to emphasize her point. "You usually have to be close to someone in order to protect them, Angel. Not send them away to fend for themselves!" She barely even stopped for a breath as she continued to rail at the befuddled vampire standing across from her. "And I would also like to remind you that if it wasn't for me, there would've never even _been_ an Angel Investigations! The business plan was all mine, buddy. Not to mention the marketing. As far as I can tell, the only one who turned out to be expendable was _you_."

"You're right." Angel agreed, backing off slightly and cheating a glance at Wesley who was hovering behind the reception counter, closest to the action. "I couldn't run this place without you—all of you. The files, the books. That's not what I'm good at."

"And that's exactly why you don't run this place anymore." Cordelia finished emphatically. "You work here, on a probationary basis, while the rest of us decide if we can trust you again. Which, I'm not so sure will ever happen. You know what they say… fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice—I'll stake you through the heart."

That was an interesting take on an old anecdote.

Angel's mouth hung slightly ajar as he processed her words; he had involuntarily taken a step back. Cordelia, on the other hand, stood straight and tall and bold as ever. Even as the box in her arm finally slipped free of her grasp and went crashing to the floor, spilling office supplies everywhere.

C-R-A-S-H

The second crash had nothing to do with the box. The second crash was Doyle falling over as he was dropkicked by a vision, which came on very suddenly, without so much as a glimmer of warning. The blurry images slammed through his synapses as he vaguely reached out to brace himself on whatever was closest, praying it wouldn't be the cold, hard tile floor. And if it was the floor, he prayed it would be his hands that landed there, before his face.

Unfortunately, it was his face.

Too bad Angel had been distracted, picking up the scattered items from Cordelia's fallen box. Had he been aware and alert, he probably could've swooped into Doyle's path and caught him before the crash-landing. It was generally one of the benefits of having Angel back in the game—his reflexes were far better than anyone else's.

As the vision subsided, Doyle slowly came back to his senses and felt the warm, wetness trickling from his hopefully-not-broken nose. Angel had lifted him from the floor and was holding him semi-upright, looking rather chagrined that he hadn't been there to catch Doyle seconds earlier.

What Doyle hadn't anticipated was that Cordelia had come to his aid as well. She stood at his side with her hand on his shoulder, gripping him. It was the first time she'd touched him since she'd cried in his arms at the hospital, and even though it was merely a small gesture of comfort, Doyle was very aware of the contact. Too aware, perhaps. He was also aware of her hazel eyes, which were firmly transfixed on his bleeding face; he identified that old, familiar look of concern and sympathy. His pain still had an effect on her—at least that hadn't changed.

"Get him on the chair." Angel instructed, practically carrying Doyle the few steps toward the plush red armchair that was nearby. Cordelia kept her hand on his shoulder, even after he'd been eased onto the piece of furniture, and Doyle was grateful for both the seating and the consolation. He was also grateful for the handkerchief Wesley extended toward him from over Cordelia's shoulder.

Doyle leaned his head back into the chair cushions and used the cloth to slow the hemorrhaging. His head was throbbing mercilessly, and the nosebleed wasn't particularly pleasant either. He was pretty sure his entire face was going to swell up like a balloon.

"There were guys in blue robes, grabbing people off the streets. And a red bird… I think?" Doyle explained, still pinching the handkerchief around his nose, as four sets of curious eyes surrounded him from above. "Ah… Lafayette Park. Near the fountain. That's where we'll find the latest victim."

It wasn't purposeful, but as Doyle looked up, his eyes naturally locked onto Cordelia's, and he had trouble unlocking. She just happened to be the closest, the shortest of the group, leaning against the arm of Doyle's chair to balance herself. And her hand was still firmly gripping Doyle's shoulder, as if he was still in some danger of falling. He felt it, then—cutting through the pain of the vision aftermath—the electricity of her touch. That hadn't changed either.

She must have felt it, too. He saw it in her face, and figured that was the reason she finally retracted her hand from his shoulder. Her eyes drifted away from his as she pushed herself off the arm of the chair to stand properly, leaning her weight on the cane instead of the piece of furniture.

It had only been a second or two. The others probably didn't even notice. Doyle wished he hadn't noticed either. Knowing what still existed there between them—it made everything so much more difficult to navigate.

He tried to push it away; he forced himself to focus more directly on Angel, who was leaning over the other side of the chair, and Wesley and Gunn, who hovered a few steps away. "There's a girl about to be grabbed, right outta her car. We gotta move fast."

Judging by the expressions reflected back down at him, Doyle must have looked as terrible as he felt. It was Wesley who spoke for them all. "Gunn, grab some weapons. Angel, bring the car around. Doyle… perhaps, you could be of more assistance—"

"On the field." Doyle cut in, pushing himself up and into a standing position. He pulled the handkerchief away from his nose, but felt the persistent trickle, telling him that he wasn't done bleeding yet. Lifting the bloodied cloth back up to his face, he did his best not to betray the fact that he would, in fact, probably be better off sitting down. Wesley's skeptical gaze told him he wasn't doing a very convincing job.

Doyle had to get out of there—staying behind wasn't an option. It was hard enough to be around Cordelia when there were other people around. Hard enough to sit twenty feet away from her and pretend she was a little-known acquaintance. He couldn't very well sit there in this condition, with her feeling obligated to tend to him. That would only make the line between what they used to be and what they were now blurrier... "I'm fine, Wes. Just gonna grab a quick nip before we head out."

Wesley frowned slightly at that admission, but didn't argue. If he thought it ill advised for a bleeding man to medicate with alcohol, he kept his objections to himself. He gave Doyle an affirming nod as he moved to assist Gunn in collecting weapons. Cordelia, he found, was less likely to bite her tongue on the subject.

"You look terrible." She said, sounding far more accusatory than sympathetic.

"Gee, thanks." He muttered, keeping his eyes turned toward the ceiling along with the blood-soaked cloth to his nose, "I hope ya won't mind if I don't return the compliment."

They were still standing a little too close for comfort, so Doyle lurched in the direction of the reception counter, to search for a flask he had hidden on one of the lower shelves. He walked awkwardly, still trying to keep his head tipped back to squelch the bleeding. Cordelia limped along behind him, ignoring the box of office supplies that still lay half-scattered in front of the reception area. He hoped she was only returning to her desk, rather than actively following him. He hoped wrong.

"You shouldn't be going." She said from over his shoulder as he reached the back of the reception counter and knelt down to inspect the bottom shelf, keeping the cloth to his nose the entire time. "You should stay here and put ice on that, before you turn into the elephant man."

He successfully located his hidden flask and finally dropped the cloth from his nose in order to unscrew the cap and eagerly bring the drink to his lips. Cordelia glowered down at him, clearly not thrilled that Doyle was swigging whiskey, which they both knew was more likely to exacerbate his bleeding rather than stop it. "If you're going because of me—don't."

He swallowed the burning liquid, momentarily enjoying the heat it sent down his throat and into chest. "I'm not." He answered her, lying through his teeth. He pushed himself back into a standing position, casually bracing himself against the side of the counter, and hoping she didn't realize that was what he was doing. "The bleeding's almost stopped, the headache'll pass."

She didn't look like she believed him for a second. She could see right through him—nope, that hadn't changed either. "I thought we agreed to be professional, Doyle." She said with an air of disappointment.

"How's doing my job being unprofessional exactly?" Doyle wondered exasperatedly, twisting the cap of his flask back into place and then lifting a finger to his nostrils, to make sure he wasn't lying when he'd said the bleeding was stopping—well, it did seem to have slowed, at least. "Last time I sat out, ya told me I shoulda gone. I'm starting to think this is one of those damned-if-ya-do, damned-if-ya-don't type of deals, yeah?"

"Last time you didn't take a nose dive onto the marble floor." She reminded him. "But, hey, suit yourself. If you'd rather follow up a sharp blow to the head with another sharp blow to the head, be my guest."

"Doyle?" Wesley called, from the center of the lobby, where he and Gunn now stood, loaded down with weapons. "Are you coming?"

Doyle gave one final glance back at Cordelia's disapproving face and then nodded toward Wesley, tossing the flask carelessly into one of the reception counter's shelves and shoving the bloodied handkerchief into his pocket for later. "Yeah, mate. Let's go."

Apparently, Doyle had figured out which direction to move again. And the best direction was as far away from Cordelia as possible. It was just easier that way—for both of them.


	48. Disharmony, Pt 2

**"Disharmony," Part II**

Cordelia sat at her desk, reorganizing her pencil holder, bored out of her mind. Since she'd been on constant desk-duty lately—and there weren't exactly a plethora of cases to work on—she had _nothing_ to do.

Zero. Zilch. Nada.

Absolutely nothing to do but sit around and _think_. Reflecting upon the fact that Doyle had rushed out to fight God-knows-what, while still rocking his bloody nose and possible concussion, rather than sitting on the other side of the lobby with his head buried in a newspaper the way he'd done nearly every other day in recent memory.

It bothered her. It shouldn't, but it did. Not because she was worried about him—which she was, despite her best efforts not to be; but that wasn't really the point. Rather, she was _annoyed_. Who was _he_ to be avoiding _her_?! It was supposed to be the other way around! She should be the one avoiding him. And she most certainly would, if he ever came close enough to be avoided. Which he never did.

Ugh! He was infuriating even when they weren't dating.

 _Especially_ when they weren't dating.

That was it. She was going home. She couldn't sit here another minute with nothing productive to do to distract her from her wandering thoughts. At least at home she could get into her comfy sweats, cuddle with her kitty and find a good movie that had nothing to do with romance. Or at least something that didn't make her want romance for herself—something tragic, perhaps? That would remind her that most relationships end up that way. Yes, that would definitely cheer her up.

Plus, she could get a head start on avoiding Doyle before he had a chance to avoid her.

Standing up from her desk, and grabbing ahold of her cane, Cordelia made her way into Wesley's office and left him a note, indicating she was going home and he should check in with her there. She then began flipping off the lights, plunging the expansive lobby into semi-darkness.

Unhurriedly making her away across the room to the front landing, she started to get the distinct feeling that—

"Ahhhhhhhh!" Cordelia screamed as she turned around and came face to face with a pale figure, who had just emerged from the shadows at the base of the small staircase.

"That's the way you greet an old friend?" The voice emanating from the figure was familiar, as was the figure herself.

"Ahhhhhhh!" This time Cordelia's scream was that of excitement rather than fear as she recognized the woman standing before her. "Harmony?!"

Harmony joined in the shrieking, throwing her arms around Cordelia in a tight embrace and squeezing her hard. "Yup. It's me!"

Maybe she squeezed a little too hard. And then there was the jumping.

"Ouch. Harmony. Need a little air here." Cordelia pleaded, feeling the twinge in her belly where her injury was still slowly mending. She knew she was past the danger of reopening the wound, but the muscle was far from healed. "Strong grip—you must spend a lot of time at the gym these days, huh?"

The blonde let go at Cordelia's behest, her enthusiastic smile barely wavering. "Not really, but I'm on a diet that's really high in iron."

Cordelia's eyes raked over the old familiar face in greater detail, amazed to find that not a single thing looked different. This could have been the same Harmony she'd seen on graduation day. And yet, something _did_ seem different about her. It was just really hard to place. "Wow. I haven't seen you since…"

"Our high school blew up." Harmony finished the sentence, gesturing toward Cordelia's short, highlighted locks. "I _love_ your new hair cut—it looks adorable off your neck like that."

"Yeah?" Cordelia asked happily, lifting her hand to fluff out the ends of her short do. "I guess I was just looking for a change, y'know. Something that felt more mature."

"Your whole look seems really mature." Harmony noticed, gesturing to the wooden stick that Cordelia was leaning her weight against. "Like, _really_ mature. Even for my grandma."

"Oh, this is not so much a stylistic choice as a necessity." Cordelia acknowledged, with a small shrug. "I, um… well, it was a job-related incident. I'm doing a lot better now. Barely need this thing anymore."

Cordelia lifted the cane in the air to demonstrate how little she needed it, but felt the strain in her abdomen as she did so. She quickly planted it back down on the floor, and resumed her weight distribution. Pretty soon, she wouldn't need it for real. She certainly couldn't wait for that day.

"How'd you get hurt working at a hotel? " Harmony wondered, turning away from Cordelia to size up the expansive lobby. She took several steps deeper into the room, admiring the crystal chandelier that hung over her head. "Did you fall down the stairs or something?"

"No, this is a detective agency, actually." Cordelia explained, moving a step forward to follow behind Harmony. "Not that _I'm_ a detective… I do office work mostly. And sometimes, uh… other stuff, which is how I got hurt." She rushed through the explanation, not wanting to get any more specific than that. Despite growing up in Sunnydale, Harmony had never been in on the whole supernatural thing. Now was definitely not the time to explain. "But, enough about me. What are you doing here in L.A.? Is it business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure, for sure." Harmony said decisively, but then a bit of uncertainty crept into her voice as she turned back to face Cordelia. "I just broke up with someone. Real smothering relationship. Y'know, the kind where they just can't live without you?"

Cordelia absorbed Harmony's words, feeling her heart sink. She managed to keep the smile plastered to her face, even as it became decidedly less sincere. "Sure. I've heard of those… Of course, I can't really relate. My ex _could_ live without me, which is exactly why he's my ex."

"Well, that's great!" Harmony said suddenly, her smile growing unnaturally wide as she gave up her inspection of the lobby and spun back toward Cordelia.

"It is?" Cordelia asked skeptically, wondering if Harmony had somehow misunderstood what she'd said.

"Yeah! Two old friends, both single, ready to take the L.A. nightlife by storm!" Harmony enthused. "It'll be just like the old days at the Bronze. Except better, because everyone won't be in high school."

Cordelia tilted her head thoughtfully, starting to see the wisdom in Harmony's words. Which was a small miracle in and of itself, since "Harmony's words" and "wisdom" were generally contradictions in terms. "You know what? I think that might be exactly what I need." Cordelia admitted. "I am severely lacking in quality gal pal time these days—not to mention, lacking the _actual_ gal pals. You got a place to stay?"

"You offering?" Harmony asked, slipping her arm through Cordelia's free arm as she moved back toward the front entrance and pointed them toward the front door.

"Do I have to say it?" Cordelia replied with a smile.

"Yeah." Harmony responded with her own smile plastered in place.

"Okay, you're coming home with me!" Cordelia said excitedly. "I hope you don't mind the couch."

* * *

Wesley slipped an arm around the slight shoulders of the woman who was hysterically crying, leading her back toward her vehicle, which was parked up the street, the door still hanging open. Luckily, she was only crying and not _dead_. They had arrived just in the nick of time to stop the green-robed figure from carrying her off into the night.

The green-robed figure who just happened to be a vampire. Now, he was dust, thanks to Gunn. And the robe was being used by Gunn to wipe the sweat off his brow. Angel stood by, sulking over the fact that he hadn't been the one to stake tonight's big bad—er, mediocre bad, as the case was.

"Wrong color." Doyle remarked.

"What's that, now?" Gunn asked, looking up at Doyle with a raised brow and dropping the robe idly to his side.

"The robe I saw in my vision was blue, not green." Doyle clarified, pointing to the colored material in Gunn's hand. "There's another one of these guys."

"Yeah, well, you also thought you saw a red bird." Gunn reminded him. "I don't see any of those either."

"Are you sure?" Angel asked, moving forward to claim the robe from Gunn. He held it up to the nearby streetlamp. "It's dark. Maybe it just looked blue in the vision—see it kind of changes when you hold it up to the light."

"Hey, I'm not colorblind." Doyle argued, giving Angel a thankless glare. "I know what I saw."

"I'll do another quick sweep." Gunn announced, gazing around the empty park. "See if those blue boys are still around."

"I can go…" Angel's voice trailed off as he realized Gunn had already sprinted out of earshot. "…or not."

Doyle lifted a hand to the bridge of his nose, gently examining the tender area with his fingertips. It was swollen, and he imagined, quite bruised, but he was pretty certain it wasn't broken. Small mercy there. He had to wonder what the Powers That Be were thinking, sending him such a sudden, violent jolt. If he had been coming down the stairs or driving a car, he probably would be dead right now. And then who'd deliver their messages to the big champion, huh?

Angel followed along behind Doyle as he sauntered back to the convertible, which was parked at the curb. Both men leaned their backs against the passenger side of the vehicle, side-by side, observing the emptiness of the sprawling park before them, and waiting for their other two teammates to return.

"Have I mentioned how much atonement sucks?" Angel lamented, from his place beside Doyle.

"You're telling me?" Doyle remarked, turning his head toward Angel to show the vampire the current state of his face, reminding him that atonement could, indeed, be quite brutal on any given day. Even if your sins were a thing of the past and you had nothing new to atone for. "I think Wesley and Gunn are coming around. Maybe after a few more lectures..."

Angel winced at the unpleasant-looking lump occupying the middle of Doyle's face and then let out a frustrated sigh. "I guess. But, I don't know how to make things up to Cordelia… do you think I should get her flowers? Is that, uh… y'know, the sorta thing that works on her?"

"That wasn't her favorite form of apologetic gesture, no." Doyle responded, letting out a dry chuckle as he considered the question and fondly remembered all the times he'd been compelled to beg her forgiveness—it was usually done in the shower. Or the bedroom. Sometimes the kitchen. "What she likes best won't work for you, bud. Won't work for me anymore either, for that matter."

That gave Angel pause. "I'm sorry. I know that sounded insensitive, considering you and her are…" He stumbled over his words as he tried to define the crumbled remains of Doyle's relationship with Cordelia. "Well, you're on speaking terms. That's good—"

"I don't wanna talk about it, man." Doyle interrupted, putting Angel out of his tongue-tied misery. "We're _barely_ on speaking terms, and compared to the way things used to be… I can't tell ya how hard it is to be around her and not get close."

"Maybe you _should_ get close." Angel suggested cautiously. "Really talk to her again. It might be a good thing. For both of you."

For a shadowy, taciturn guy, Angel sure wasn't getting the point about Doyle not wanting to talk about this subject. Granted, Wesley had given the socially-challenged vampire a lengthy lecture earlier that afternoon about relating to others. Perhaps, Angel was just making an effort to be a good friend. And, perhaps, a good friend was what Doyle desperately needed right now.

"I don't think she's ready to hear anything I have to say. And, ah… If I'm being really honest, maybe I'm not ready to try and say it, either." Doyle confessed. "Not even sure what I _should_ be saying at this point. 'Cause when all's said and done, there's still the little matter of my demon DNA and what it's doing to me. Adds a nice complicated cherry on top of the disaster-sundae that is my life."

"Has it gotten any worse?" Angel wondered, slowly folding his arms across his chest and leaning his head back thoughtfully. "The demon thing."

"I don't think so." Doyle admitted. "Hard to say, really. It always gets worse after I actually use the demon, and I haven't done that in months. Been fighting hard not to _let_ that happen, yeah? Clinging to this face with everything I got. Even bought myself some of those over-the-counter allergy meds—cut down on the sneezing."

"What about Harry?" Angel continued. "Has she found anything?"

Doyle sighed heavily as he remembered the crumbled up phone message stuffed into his shirt pocket—still being ignored. "I've been dodging her calls. She wants me to do all this testing—medical stuff with some guy who studies demon biology. Can ya believe there's such a thing?"

"I believe it." Angel said with a shrug. He'd seen too much to find anything unbelievable at this point.

"Yeah, well, I've never been a big fan of needles." Doyle sulked. "And it's not like any o' that will help—not unless the guy knows how to do a demonectomy, yeah?"

"He could tell you nothing's wrong." Angel pointed out. "That would help."

"How would that help exactly?" Doyle shot back with the hint of annoyance. "If nothing's wrong, how come I can smell more of this park than you can, or better yet, how was I able to catch that girl back there without both of us landing on our asses, huh?! Tell me the last time you've ever seen me do something like that."

Despite his injured nose, Doyle had proved a helpful asset in tonight's fight. He, Angel, Gunn and Wesley had been charging after the robed figure, who had the victim in his arms. In an attempt to slow down his pursuers, the vampire had leapt up onto a retaining wall and tossed the poor woman down at them. And much to everyone's amazement, Doyle had been the one to easily catch her and remain on his feet. Had it been Angel, or even Gunn, to do such a thing, it wouldn't have been terribly surprising. But, Doyle wasn't exactly known for his quick reflexes, strength or agility. Not in his human face anyway.

"I just thought you'd been working out." Angel teased, with a half-smile.

Doyle merely glared back in reply, not terribly amused at the joke at his expense.

Angel let the small moment of levity pass and became serious once again. "Is that what you're afraid of?" He wondered, giving his friend a questioning look. "That nothing will be wrong—you'll find out you're as human as you ever were?"

"Why would I be afraid of _that_?" Doyle retorted. "I don't wanna be a demon, man. That's the whole point."

"You know why." Angel replied, his eyes shifting toward Wesley, who was returning to them from up the street, effectively ending the conversation.

Doyle didn't need to answer that question anyway. He knew the answer—it was a question he asked himself almost every day. And the truth was, he was terrified either way.

He certainly didn't want to be a demon; nothing was more true than that. But, if he wasn't losing his humanity, if his demon side wasn't completely taking over, then he had pushed Cordelia away for nothing. Dive-bombed their relationship for _nothing_.

And, maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what he was afraid of.

* * *

"More wine?" Cordelia asked, holding out the bottle toward her couch-sharing companion.

"Sure." Harmony agreed, lifting her nearly-empty glass for a refill. Cordelia poured the white wine into Harmony's outstretched glass first, before leaning toward the coffee table to refill her own.

Both women were sporting facial masks and house robes, their hair pulled back under towel-turbans. And the Chardonnay had been flowing as they reminisced about their glory days as the most rich, powerful and popular girls at Sunnydale High. _This_ was exactly what Cordelia needed. To be reminded of who she was, or who she used to be anyway…

The wine had gone straight to her head, but that felt good, too. She was feeling no pain at that moment, which is why she was unafraid of where the conversation was headed—straight into the land of commiseration. "So, what were you saying about your ex...?" She asked, placing the wine glass back down on the table and re-settling herself into the couch cushions. "He was older?"

"Yeah, by a lot." Harmony admitted. "Which made the sex pretty great."

"Tell me about it." Cordelia acknowledged, both girls smiling knowingly. "Sounds like, for you, that was the only good part, though. If he treated you bad, you're better off without him. There are other sexy, older fish in the sea."

"I know." Harmony agreed. "Which is why I'm focusing on me now—just feeling good about being me. It's just…"

"What?" Cordelia encouraged Harmony to continue.

"Um… I don't know." Harmony said, as her shoulders drooped and she looked a little pensive. "Do you ever wish you were back in high school?"

Cordelia thought about that question for barely a heartbeat before the answer slipped from her lips. "No way."

"Really?" Harmony asked with surprise. "But remember how easy everything was? How happy we were?"

 _How happy was she in high school?_ That was a good question.

Cordelia remembered what it was like to be that girl. Sure, she missed the things the girl-she-used-to-be had owned—the shoes, the dresses, the car, the Palomino. She missed the security that other girl had thanks to daddy's unending stream of cash. And what she missed most of all was the constant adoration that popularity had afforded her, and the unbreakable confidence that came with it. Who wouldn't miss all that?

Except… it all looked so different from her current perspective. Now she saw all the hollowness hidden behind the facade. All those _things_ she'd owned had been given to her in place of real love and affection. The security was an illusion, just like daddy's money itself. And the adoration of the masses, while empowering in some ways, was isolating in others. She had been a lonely girl living a phony life in a fancy house of cards. And she'd only been happy living there because she was oblivious.

Okay, maybe not exactly oblivious, but more than willing to ignore the truth, in any case.

It was no wonder that Cordelia had been so lost when she'd first come to L.A.— the curtain had been pulled back and she was still scrambling to be that other girl. She sought the quickest way back to her old life. She wanted the _things_ and the security and the money and the adoration of millions. She was convinced she'd be happy again, if she could just get all that stuff back. If she could still be who she was before, she was bound to be happy. Right?

Well, she wouldn't know… since she never found what she was looking for. What she found instead was Angel Investigations. With that job came a reevaluation of everything she'd thought she'd ever wanted. She learned she could live without _things_ , if she had to—either that, or stretch her credit limit to the max for the things she couldn't live without. She was surprised to find a sense of, not only security, but actual belonging in her new-found family—a group of people who looked out for her and protected her, even without the obligation of shared-DNA. And, most surprising of all, she discovered that being adored by one person who meant a lot to her, was way better than being adored by a lot of people who meant so little to her.

Most importantly, she found herself. The real her.

But, she really _did_ miss the shoes. And the dresses. And all the other fabulous clothes she used to own. Fighting demons was absolute murder on the clothes, and didn't pay nearly enough to replace them. No matter how much she liked helping the hopeless, she'd never get used to the dent it put in her wardrobe.

A dry laugh escaped Cordelia's lips as she smiled down into her lap. "That's the thing, Harm—I don't think I was really happy back in high school." She confessed, reflecting on everything she had learned about herself since graduation. "I'm much happier now—okay, maybe not _now_ now, because I've been through a lot of shitty stuff lately. But, if you'd asked me a few months ago, before the heartbreak and the bullet wound—I would've told you I was happier than I'd ever been."

"So, you really miss your ex, huh?" Harmony questioned, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her chin on them, to listen closely to Cordelia's answer.

"Yeah, he made me happy." Cordelia admitted freely, the wine loosening her lips. "But it was more than just him… it was, like, everything in my life had fallen into place for a little while. I'd been missing something—a real purpose, y'know—and I never knew what it was or how to find it. Which is why I assumed it was my eventual superstardom."

"That makes sense." Harmony agreed, nodding along with Cordelia's infallible logic. "With your complexion, you would look _stunning_ on a red carpet."

"That's what I always thought!" Cordelia exclaimed, glad to have validation from someone other than her own reflection. "Plus, winning smile? Hello." She flashed her thousand-watt smile as evidence of her statement.

"Still the reigning champ." Harmony assured her.

Cordelia shook her head in mild astonishment that no one had plucked her off the street and made her a superstar, yet. "I guess the jury's still out on the whole fame thing… But, being with Doyle was good for me. He kinda helped show me that fame and fortune wasn't everything; there was another path waiting for me." Cordelia sounded a little wistful as she remembered the early months of Angel Investigations, and how it slowly became much more than a temp job to her. "We were working together, helping people. And I found out that I liked it. I mean, it feels satisfying in a way that's really hard to describe. I feel like… like I found my purpose, y'know? And it feels really good." Cordelia gave a little shrug. "Most of the time—when there aren't any gaping wounds involved."

"Wow. I wish my ex had done something other than make me feel stupid." Harmony remarked, noticeably impressed by Cordelia's declaration. "So, why aren't you still with that Doyle-guy, if he was so good for you and you were so happy together?"

It was a fair question, but Cordelia couldn't help but feel that old familiar ache rise in her chest as she sought to verbalize the answer. "It's complicated." She hedged, adjusting her robe more tightly around her waist. "Ultimately, I had to face the downside of being involved with a co-worker… it can be hard to separate the business from the personal sometimes."

"Do you still work with him?" Harmony wondered. "That sounds like it would be so _awkward_. Way worse than just going to school with an ex."

"Ugh, it totally is." Cordelia confirmed, still feeling the effects of the wine. "There are still a lot of unresolved feelings there, both good and bad. I'm not sure how to deal with them sometimes." She looked over at her old friend, glad she had a pair of ears at her disposal that were both female and removed from the Angel Investigations team. "This helps, though. I'm so glad you decided to visit!"

Cordelia held up her wine glass in celebration, and Harmony lifted her own, clanking it against Cordelia's.

"Me, too." Harmony said with a weak smile, which quickly turned to a grimace.

"Are you okay?" Cordelia asked, lowering her glass and giving Harmony a concerned look. "You look kinda crampy."

"Just... _hungry_." Harmony said with a deep sigh; her expression wasn't exactly coming through as hungry. More like, longing. "I guess."

"Got the cure for that. Pizza!" Cordelia replied excitedly, swinging her legs off the couch and standing upright. She caught herself, momentarily off-balance. The wine made her feel invincible, but she wasn't exactly used to drinking so much of it. Even so, she didn't bother taking her cane as she headed across the room to grab the phone. "I know just the place to call. It's my favorite. Thin crust, heavy on the sauce. Do you like pineapple and Tandoori Chicken?"


	49. Disharmony, Pt 3

**"Disharmony," Part III**

Doyle poured himself a cup of coffee, looking over at Cordelia's empty chair with curiosity. She was usually in the office by this time. And she had left early the previous evening, before he and the others had returned from the job. If Doyle didn't know any better, he'd think she was avoiding the place on account of him—which was rather ironic, considering she'd scolded him for doing as much the prior evening. Granted, it was true in his case.

This whole working-with-the-ex thing wasn't getting any easier. That was for sure.

Sipping from his mug, Doyle moved across the reception area to peer into Wesley's office where Angel was pacing, with the green robe dangling from his hand. "I should go out, see if I can pick up any information on the street."

"You mean the street bathed in morning sunlight?" Wesley wondered, barely looking up from the book that was open in front of him. "Relax. I already have Gunn contacting his sources."

"What about my sources?" Doyle wondered, as he entered the doorway and leaned casually against the frame, coffee mug in hand. "Ya never ask me to talk to my less-respectable acquaintances anymore. It's always _Gunn_ who knows a guy, or _Gunn_ who's hitting the streets."

"I thought you were in the habit of avoiding your less-respectable acquaintances." This time Wesley did look up from his book, in order to raise a questioning brow in Doyle's directions. "On account of most of them wanting to kill you or trade you in for cash."

"Well, yeah…" Doyle admitted, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "There's that. But, I still know a few guys who're harmless enough. All I'm saying is—I'm more than just a one-way intercom for the Powers, yeah? I've got my other uses."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time." Wesley said, obviously just humoring Doyle, and not bothering to do it all that convincingly. "For the time being, why don't you—"

 _Riiiiiing_.

"—answer the phone." Wesley continued, as the main phone line began to ring.

Doyle rolled his eyes, even as he moved to Cordelia's desk to pick up the handset. "Angel Investigations, we hope you're helpless… ah, I mean—"

"Um, Doyle?" An unfamiliar, but mildly panicked voice, asked from the other end of the receiver. "Is that you?"

"Yeah. Who's this?" He asked, balancing the phone between his ear and his shoulder blade as he took a sip from his coffee mug.

"Willow. Cordelia's friend from Sunnydale." The voice said hurriedly, sparking a glimmer of recognition in Doyle. He didn't know Willow personally, but he certainly knew of her. And clearly Willow knew enough about him to be able to identify him over the phone without ever having spoken to him before. "I need you to listen to me—Cordy's in trouble. You have to get to her place right now!"

Doyle's stomach flipped over and he planted his mug down on the desk, as he spun toward Angel who was walking out of Wesley's office. Doyle's eyes were wide with fear, which Angel noticed immediately.

"What is it?" Angel asked, having no idea who Doyle was on the phone with.

"What d'ya mean she's in trouble?" Doyle exclaimed into the receiver, his panic rising. The only reason he was still standing there, holding the phone rather than running for the door was because he couldn't fathom why someone in Sunnydale would have any knowledge of Cordelia's current safety, or lack thereof. "What's wrong with her?"

"There's a vampire in her apartment!" Willow shouted from the other end of the line. "Her name is Harmony, and she went to high school with us, and you have to go! Now!"

"Alright, yeah. I'm going!" He yelled into the receiver, before slamming it down to disconnect the call. He turned to Angel, gesturing for him to follow as Doyle began sprinting for the front door. "We gotta go, man. Cordy's in trouble. I'll explain on the way!"

* * *

"Get away from her!" Doyle shouted, pointing the crossbow he'd retrieved from Angel's trunk at the blonde girl who was hunched over Cordelia's… "Foot."

Was this vampire chick painting Cordelia's toenails? Because that's what it looked like from Doyle's vantage point.

Cordelia was glowering at him from her place on the couch, and shaking her head with ferocity. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing here, Doyle?" She demanded, only taking her angry gaze off of Doyle, to extend it to Angel who also stood just inside her doorway, stake in hand. "Both of you—put those weapons down!"

"Willow called." Angel explained, still inching closer to where the two girls sat on Cordelia's couch. "She said you were in trouble."

"Does it look like I'm in trouble?" Cordelia retorted, gesturing to her legs, which were stretched out across the couch. She held up a warning hand at Angel, making it clear she wanted him to halt.

"Well… no." Angel admitted, a look of puzzlement settling on his face as he heeded her order. "Not at this exact moment."

Harmony sat on the other end of the couch, looking up at both Doyle and Angel with a big, vapid smile.

Doyle had to hand it to her; she didn't _look_ evil. But, he knew damn well she was, which is why he gestured with his crossbow. "Looks can be deceiving, darlin'. Your friend Harmony here happens to be a—"

"Vampire." Cordelia stated bluntly. "Yeah, I know."

"Ah… y'do?" Doyle asked in dismay, blinking his eyes rapidly as he tried to comprehend why Cordelia would nonchalantly invite a vampire into her home for a pedicure. "You do get that she's evil, yeah?"

"Oh, I already explained that." Harmony piped in, with a hesitant smile. "Cordy's okay with it."

"She is, is she?" Doyle repeated, feeling like he had just entered the twilight zone. He was still half-aiming the crossbow in Harmony's direction, despite Cordelia's objections.

"Yeah, I am." Cordelia confirmed, sliding herself off the couch and into a standing position without the aid of her cane. She placed her hands on her hips in a defiant pose that Doyle knew all too well.

"Y'know, I don't appreciate the two of you storming in here, crossbows-a-blazing. Ready to kill my friend without even asking me what's going on. You guys have some nerve!"

"We came to save you." Angel argued lamely.

"This isn't like last time with the Skilosh demons—I don't need saving. Especially not from you two." Cordelia sassed, and then whipped her head around toward Doyle. "I can't help but notice that Wesley and Gunn didn't feel the need to barge into my apartment to insult my friend."

Doyle wrinkled his brow in frustration, dropping the crossbow to his side, but keeping an eye on Harmony all the same. He didn't trust her, and if he had to jump back into attack-mode, he was more than willing to do so, no matter what Cordelia was saying. "Now, you listen here, Princess—I don't know what kinda spell she's got ya under, but y'know as well as I do that the _thing_ sittin' right there isn't your friend. She's a bloodsucking monster who's just waiting for the right time to suck ya dry!"

"Oh, this is your ex, right?" Harmony said suddenly, from her place on the couch, her eyes lighting up with the apparent epiphany. "I just caught that."

Cordelia paused to give Harmony a tight smile, before turning back to Doyle with a slightly pained expression. "She _is_ my friend, and she's asked for my help."

"A vampire." Doyle stated incredulously. "Asked for your help."

"What? Why is that so hard to believe?" Cordelia shot back with annoyance. "We've helped demons before. Some of us _are_ demons, in fact."

That might not have been intended as a low blow, but Doyle felt like it was, which was why he turned his back away from Cordelia, exhaling a long breath as he tried to calm his kneejerk fury. If he argued with her, she was never going to be reasonable about this situation.

While Doyle had his back turned, Angel made an attempt to pick up the slack, albeit without much force. "Um, Cordelia, you know it's not the same thing, right?" He said weakly. "The demons we've helped haven't been, y'know… evil."

"Well, Harmony is evil." Cordelia replied. "But, she's not very good at it. I trust her."

Doyle couldn't believe what he was hearing, but instead of exploding, he took one more calming breath and slowly turned back to face Cordelia with his bluffing face firmly set in place. There was really only one way to assure Cordelia would be safe and that Harmony wouldn't kill anyone. "Cordy's right… we're in the business of helping people—and demons are people, too." He fibbed, careful to avoid looking Angel in the eye. "Now, I think it's time we all get back to the office, yeah? So we can start with the, ah… _helping_."

"Don't you dare—!" Cordelia instinctively fought back and then stopped herself, clearly taken aback by Doyle's about face. "Wait, did you just agree with me?"

"You wanna take Harmony to the office?" Angel asked with disbelief. "With us?"

"We have a case we're workin' on at the moment." Doyle reasoned, doing his best impression of diplomacy. "Sooner we solve that, sooner we can help Cordelia's friend here."

"Okay… let me get my coat." Cordelia agreed, slowly maneuvering around the coffee table, still without the aid of her cane. "This'll be fun, Harm. You can help with the case. How are you with research?"

"Terrible. Probably." Harmony admitted, standing up from the couch. "But I promise not to bite anyone. And, anyway, it's better than staying here with the G-H-O-S-T."

"You don't have to spell it." Cordelia told her. "Dennis knows he's a ghost."

Doyle finally did look over at Angel and saw the vampire's eyes reflecting back his own concerns. This was definitely going to be an interesting day at the office.

* * *

"That's it alright." Doyle confirmed, looking up at the neon sign overhead. "The red bird from my vision. This is definitely the place."

The sign in question was hanging over a shuttered theater—an appropriate place for a vampire cult meeting, which, as it so happened, was exactly what they were searching for. Doyle had to hand it to Gunn's sources, they always came through. Instead of driving aimlessly throughout the entirety of Los Angeles—a fruitless effort to be sure—Gunn's intel allowed them to drive aimlessly throughout a ten block radius instead. Hoping that Doyle would recognize something from the vision that had nearly left him with a broken nose.

Turns out the red bird was the key.

"Good work, Doyle." Wesley enthused, slapping the other man on the back. "Angel, Doyle, cover the front. Gunn and I will go around the building, see if there's another way in."

"Um, aren't you forgetting something, Wes?" Cordelia griped, from her place behind the guys. She stood leaning against her cane, looking less than thrilled to have been excluded from the plan of action. "You told me you needed me to come along, and here I am. So, what's my job exactly?"

Wesley turned to Cordelia with an apologetic grin. It was true, he had mandated that she come along on the mission, but only because he thought it unsafe to leave her alone at the office with Harmony. It was a good call, and Doyle had been relieved that Wesley had made it without Doyle having to say anything. Unfortunately, that meant Harmony had tagged along as well. Which made the car ride terribly uncomfortable, to say the least.

"Um, you should cover the front, with Angel and Doyle, of course." Wesley suggested. "And, perhaps… keep an eye on Harmony while you're at it."

"But I'm a vampire." Harmony implored, from where she stood leaning against Angel's car. "I don't need anyone to look out for me. Someone comes too close, I can just rip their throats out!"

"You see my point." Wesley replied to Cordelia, with an arched brow.

Cordelia sighed heavily and then waved at Wesley to get moving. "I'll take care of it. Just go."

As Gunn and Wesley moved away from the group, disappearing around the rear of the building, Cordelia steered herself back toward the car where Harmony waited. Her slow progress was halted by a hand clamping down on her arm unexpectedly.

"Hey!" She objected, fully knowing who the hand belonged to even before she looked up to see Doyle standing there. "Touching! With the hands. That's not allowed, remember?"

Doyle immediately let go and held his hands up to signal that he wouldn't try touching her again, never bothering to point out that she'd broken the rule first—not that he'd been complaining. "Can we step over here for a sec?" He asked, gesturing a few paces to their right, a little ways away from where the blonde vampire stood, incessantly popping her bubblegum. "I think it's time we had ourselves a little chat, yeah?"

"This isn't the time or the place, Doyle." Cordelia gritted through her teeth, even as she acquiesced, hobbling a few steps further out of Harmony's earshot. And Angel's for that matter—the ensouled vampire was hovering by the theater entrance, attempting to peer through the cracks in the door for any signs of movement within.

"Well, it has to happen now, because it's about your friend Harmony over there." Doyle replied evenly, once they had settled into stillness, facing one another with an undeniable tension hovering between them. "I've been tryin' to keep my mouth shut, love, but there's only so much a fella can take. Ya needa face reality here—being around 'er is dangerous. We aren't gonna be able to help her. What we should be doing is killing her."

"I should've known you weren't really on my side about this." Cordelia snapped back at him, situating her cane in front of her so it would act like a natural barrier. "It's okay for you to be loyal to _your_ vampire best friend, but not okay for me?!"

"Y'know it's not the same thing." He pointed out with slowly growing exasperation.

"Why not?" Cordelia huffed angrily. "Harmony said she wanted to help us—she said she wants to be one of the good guys now."

"I can say I'm the Pope, that doesn't make it true!" Doyle retorted. "She's not like Angel. She doesn't have a soul. Which means there's nothing stopping her from all the killing and betraying and other despicable acts that generally come with the being evil part."

"Having a soul didn't stop Angel from doing any of those things!" Cordelia reminded him furiously. "And you stood by him through all of it—just in case you forgot why we broke up!" She barely took a breath as she continued to lay into him, more fired up than he'd seen her in ages. "Harmony isn't nearly as scary as Angelus; not even close. God, Doyle, can you imagine what would've happened if Angel had gone nuts and slept with Darla?! Then we probably wouldn't be having this conversation because one, or both, of us would be dead!"

Doyle absorbed her rapid-fire attack, feeling the vague sense of déjà vu that tended to come when you reprised a fight you've already had. And while it would have been sensible of him to yield, he wasn't feeling terribly sensible at the moment. "No, darlin', I haven't forgotten why we broke up—it's 'cause ya stopped trusting me!" Doyle shouted back at her, completely losing control of the false calm exterior he'd been clinging to for weeks in her presence. "Ya started doubting me every step o' the way, from the way I was doing my job, to my dedication to you. Made it real easy for ya to walk away without looking back, yeah?"

"Nice revisionist history you've got going there." Cordelia argued, her eyes blazing as she looked up at him. "Did you forget the part where I didn't just _look_ back, I _came_ back? I actually felt _bad_ for doubting you and I regretted walking away; but considering what's happened since then, I think we both agree I was right the first time!"

She had him there, and he couldn't defend himself without telling her truth about his demonic evolution. Nor did he have the heart to remind her of what she'd said to him in the hospital. That she hadn't come back at all—it had only been for the baby. He could never say that aloud, not only because the memory attached to those words hurt him deeply, but because they were liable to hurt her as well. And he really didn't want to hurt her any more than he already had.

"Maybe we should call it even then." He shot back, finding it hard to take the volume out of his voice even though he wanted to. She had gotten into his bloodstream, but he fought to take it down a notch. "We both had a part to play in ending our relationship, yeah?"

"Which is why the show's over!" She snapped right back at him. "And when did this argument about Harmony turn into an argument about us, huh?"

"It's not an argument." He said unconvincingly, finally running out of steam. She was still fired up, but Doyle had very little desire to keep stoking the flame. "This _is_ about Harmony. She's gonna betray you, and I can't stand by and let that happen without trying to stop it."

"Your opinion is noted." She said icily, turning away from him, preparing to propel herself back toward the evil vampire waiting at the side of the Angel's convertible.

He stood in place, head bowed, knowing she could hear him and hoping she was still actually _listening_. "I know how this goes, Cordy. Don't do something foolish just to spite me, yeah?" He pleaded, and saw that she hesitated before she began her retreat. "You're too prideful to admit it, but deep down y'know I'm right here."

Cordelia picked up her pace, stomping her cane down as she finally moved away from Doyle. Angel crossed her path coming in the opposite direction and she paused to give him a venomous glare. "What are _you_ looking at?! You gave away my clothes! Don't think I'll be forgetting _that_ anytime soon, buddy!"

As she continued hobbling her way toward the parked car, Angel stared after her with bemusement, before turning to face Doyle with a frown. "You told her I gave away her clothes?"

Doyle shot Angel with a dark glare, before turning to pace in the opposite direction, just as Wesley and Gunn reappeared from the back of the building.

"Building's shut tight." Gunn announced. "Couldn't see inside. But, with all that yelling going on out here, I'm sure they'll all come running real soon."

"Sorry." Doyle grumbled over his shoulder, even as he caught the concerned look from Wesley. "My fault."

It was his fault. He had engaged her, even though he knew better. He'd have to try not and forget himself again.


	50. Disharmony, Pt 4

**"Disharmony," Part IV**

All hell had broken loose. The entire Angel Investigations team had been led straight into a trap by an evil vampire whom they never should've trusted in the first place. It was a sudden, but inevitable betrayal. And Doyle couldn't stop cursing himself for having let it happen.

He'd known better. They'd all known better. Even Cordelia knew better, but she was still hell bent on proving Doyle—and everyone else, for that matter—wrong. Instead, she was caught in the trap as well, and not nearly as prepared to defend herself as the rest of them. Which was problematic, since the rest of them were occupied, and Cordelia _had_ to defend herself—she had no choice.

Doyle had seen her whack Harmony in the face with her cane, which was a good start, but he couldn't be certain the fight went very well from there. Even if Cordelia hadn't been injured, Harmony possessed superhuman strength, and Cordelia did not. The two women were far from evenly matched. Doyle himself was struggling with two vamps of his own, otherwise he would have gone to help her—he wanted to help her. Especially since he knew that Angel and Gunn were otherwise engaged and Wesley was working hard to free the cage full of human hostages.

After he slugged one of the vamps, and slammed a stake into the second, Doyle got a better gauge on where Cordelia was, which was to say she was flat on her face on the floor, with Harmony leaping on top of her. It didn't look good, but Doyle was pleased to see the feisty brunette use her elbow to knock Harmony backwards; it gave her time to turn herself over and use her arms in defense of her body. Adrenaline was a powerful drug, and he had no doubt that Cordelia was fueled by a healthy dose of it, but there was only so much she was going to be able to do without a weapon. And it appeared the closest weapon to her, a crossbow, was several inches out of her reach.

Doyle lost sight of her again, having been tackled to the ground and forced to deal with his own life or death altercation. As he rolled on top of his attacker and plunged a stake through this vampire as well, Doyle immediately lifted his head to pinpoint Cordelia. She was out of sight this time—apparently she'd been dragged further backstage by Harmony.

Pushing himself back up to his feet, and lifting Cordelia's fallen cane off the ground, Doyle sprinted in the direction he hoped she and Harmony had gone. And he saw them almost immediately—Cordelia on her feet with the crossbow trained on Harmony's heart. She had done it; she had somehow managed to gain the upper hand, injuries and all. Relief poured through him, and he halted his running, opting to hang back and let her finish Harmony off rather than steal her thunder.

Harmony's hands were up in surrender as she backed away slowly. Then she stopped. Shutting her eyes tightly, she appeared to accept her fate. The one she deserved. But Doyle noticed Cordelia's hesitation, and was surprised to see her lower the crossbow, instead of pulling the trigger. It was then that Harmony reopened her eyes and also seemed surprised by Cordelia's reluctance to finish her off.

"We're still friends, right?" Harmony asked in a small, hopeful voice.

"No, Harmony. We're not friends." Cordelia said matter-of-factly. "Just get out of here."

The surprise only increased as Harmony realized what was happening. That Cordelia was granting her mercy, even as she was denouncing their friendship. "Really?"

"Not just here. I want you out of my city." Cordelia clarified, keeping her voice strong and even, barely betraying the sadness that lurked beneath the surface. "You're gonna wanna be as far away from me as possible."

"But I left a few things at your—" The objection died on Harmony's lips as Cordelia raised her crossbow once again. "Bye!" Harmony chirped her final goodbye, before turning and racing up the staircase against the wall. Cordelia kept the crossbow trained on the blonde until she disappeared from sight.

"Don't say it." Cordelia addressed Doyle, without turning around to face him. "Not one word."

Doyle hadn't been planning on saying anything. He knew what she expected to hear, but he didn't see the point in an "I told you so." Nor was there any point in lecturing her on the foolishness of letting Harmony go.

A moment later he watched as Cordelia dropped the crossbow, letting it clamor to the ground, and slowly turned toward him. The strained expression on her face told him that the adrenaline was rapidly ebbing away, taking with it the strength she'd used to combat her ex-friend. She lifted one hand to her wounded abdomen, and hunched forward as she fought to stay on her feet. It was then that Doyle lurched forward and instinctively reached out to assist her, only _just_ stopping himself before he made contact. He wanted to catch her; wanted to lift her into his arms, but he knew better than to try something like that without her permission. Instead, he placed her cane down in front of her in offering, and remained close—should she choose to reach out for him, he would be there. Barring that, he had to let her do what she was going to do, even if it meant straining herself further.

"I can, ah… I can get Gunn to help ya." He offered, figuring she'd allow Gunn's assistance long before she'd even consider accepting Doyle's.

Cordelia reached out for the cane and steadied herself against it, taking a deep breath. "No, I can make it on my own."

She didn't start to walk right away, and he started to wonder if she even could, but then she took a step forward, and another step after that. Slowly, but surely. Clearly in pain, but unwilling to give in to it. She took each step on her own, and she didn't stop until she'd made it all the way to the car.

* * *

"Oh, my god. These are gorgeous! You have the most amazing taste! You have, like, a gay man's taste, and that's saying something."

Cordelia was shrieking with excitement as she sifted through a few of the numerous garments Angel had laid out on her desk in presentation. Wesley and Doyle stood together in Wesley's doorway, taking in the scene, which included a certain vampire looking very pleased with himself.

"This one's cashmere." He said proudly, lifting a violet-colored cardigan and running his fingers over the soft material. "I know how much you like that."

"I told him flowers wouldn't work, y'see." Doyle explained to Wesley so that the other two couldn't overhear.

"Quite right." Wesley mumbled back, clearly displeased by Angel's obvious attempt to buy back Cordelia's affections, even though it seemed quite an effective strategy, by the looks of things.

"I love them _so_ much!" She enthused, her face lit up with her trademark high-wattage smile, as she threw her arms around Angel and squeezed him tight, also planting a kiss smack on the side of his cheek. Doyle had to admit, he could've kissed Angel himself for bringing that smile to her face. It was a sight for sore eyes, that was for sure. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're the best!"

Angel was grinning from ear to ear as he received a second kiss on the cheek, at which point, Doyle was feeling a little less willing to kiss Angel himself.

"I have to go try these on." Cordelia announced as she started draping herself with the clothes, and doing an excited little dance in place as she sang out loud. "La, la, la, la, la, new clothes! I have new clothes!"

Angel was still grinning broadly as he looked toward Wesley and Doyle, one of whom was definitely not smiling, and the other who couldn't really help himself from grinning along. How could he be upset, when Cordelia looked so damn _happy_? "I got her clothes." Angel said needlessly, pointing toward the extremely exuberant woman currently burying herself in pricey garments.

Cordelia grabbed her cane and limped rapidly away from the reception area, still doing her jaunty little dance. "New clothes, I have new clothes!"

Wesley shook his head disapprovingly and moved back into his office, although he couldn't escape the sound of Cordelia's joyful off-key singing. The reigning boss crossed the room and settled into his office chair. Meanwhile, Doyle twisted himself around, so he could face the other man as he remained in the doorway.

"Ya don't approve, I take it?" Doyle asked unnecessarily, crossing his arms over his chest and assuming his usual leaning position.

"Of Angel _buying_ Cordelia's approval?" Wesley clarified, with a scowl firmly in place. "No, I should think not. Don't tell me you're planning to do the same?"

"I wish it could be that easy for me, man." Doyle confessed, with a contrite chuckle.

"Well, we both know that's not entirely true." Wesley replied nonchalantly at first, but then challenged Doyle with an arch of his brow. "In fact, I rather think you want to keep Cordelia at a distance. I only have to wonder why."

"Ya mean aside from all the yelling?" Doyle replied glibly.

"I may not approve of Angel's current methods, but at least he started with the more conventional acts of contrition." Wesley reasoned. "Unless I've missed something, you haven't tried anything of the sort."

Doyle glowered down at Wesley, not appreciating the other man's rather accurate assessment of the circumstances. "Maybe you're not wrong, yeah? But I have my reasons. And they're of a personal nature."

"Well, I suggest you get over them." Wesley said rather bluntly, taking Doyle aback.

"Hey." Doyle objected. "I'm thinkin' ya should mind your own business, bud. Boss or not, you're outta line."

Wesley sighed, and then held up his hands in an apologetic gesture, showing that he had no intentions of making this a battle or a lecture. "It is none of my business, and yet it's hard to stay silent, knowing what I know."

"Yeah? And what d'ya know?" Doyle wondered, uncrossing his arms and shoving his hands in his pockets.

The other man raised both brows as if to say the answer was rather obvious. "I've seen you and Cordelia together and I've seen you apart. And I know that you are both better off when you are involved in each other's lives." He said simply. "Even if it's just as friends, which, to be clear, is all I'm suggesting here."

"She doesn't wanna be my friend, man." Doyle replied, not without regret.

"No, I suppose she doesn't." Wesley agreed, but the way in which he said it implied a meaning that contradicted Doyle's original statement. "That's why it's so hard to try."

Doyle hung his head, letting that idea sink in, along with the simple and unequivocal fact that he hadn't tried hard enough to bridge the gap between he and Cordelia. In fact, he'd made no effort at all. He'd given into cowardice and chosen avoidance over confrontation.

"Um, Doyle?" Wesley's uncertain voice, brought Doyle back to the moment. The other man was now leaning back in his chair, peering through the window which looked out into the lobby. "It appears you have company."

He sensed her then, and wondered how it was possible that he hadn't noticed her presence several moments earlier. Probably, because he had been distracted. But, now he stepped backward to get a visual and the apprehension he initially felt grew exponentially. There, in the center of the Hyperion lobby, was his ex-wife. Currently greeting his ex-girlfriend with a warm embrace.

"Oh, Lord." Doyle muttered under his breath as he saw the two women, smiling happily at each other as if they were the oldest and dearest of friends. This couldn't lead to anything good. Which is why his feet began to rapidly pedal him forward, to stop the conversation before it could go beyond pleasantries.

"It's so great to see you. You look terrific!" Harriet was enthusing, as she took in Cordelia's appearance, which now featured one of her newly acquired blouses. "And this office is really impressive. Quite an upgrade from the old place."

"Yeah, all the space is great." Cordelia agreed. "But it takes _forever_ to dust. And don't get me started on the electric bill..." She let out a low whistle and pointed upward to illustrate how astronomical a number she was referring to.

"I can't help but notice the cane. Are you alright?" Harriet wondered, her face filling with concern.

"It's a long story." Doyle interrupted as he came up beside his two exes, feigning far more enthusiasm than he felt. His stomach wasn't just full of butterflies, they were bats. Had to be bats.

"I got shot." Cordelia explained, scrunching her nose at Doyle's rather abrupt hijacking of the conversation.

"Well, it's not so long when ya give the abridged version." He admitted with a reluctant shrug. "Harry, good to see ya. If I'da known you were coming I woulda—."

"Been elsewhere?" Harriet guessed, eying her ex-husband knowingly.

Doyle's eyes darted from one woman to the other, not sure what to say that wouldn't land him directly in hot water with one or both of them. "It's just this is a place of business, yeah? What's say we step outside and let Cordy get back to, ah… work-related things."

The bemused looks he received from both Harriet and Cordelia alike told him he was failing rather spectacularly at trying to make the moment seem casual. But Harriet's confusion quickly gave way to annoyance. "I see all your fingers are still attached to your hands—meaning you are capable of picking up and dialing a phone. Isn't that right, Francis?"

"We can discuss my lack of manners _outside_ , Harry." Doyle reiterated, giving her a silent, pleading look with his eyes and nodding his head toward the courtyard around back. "If ya don't mind."

Cordelia rolled her eyes at Doyle's abruptness. "I'd apologize for his rudeness, but hey, you were married to him." She turned back toward Harriet, her voice sweet as pie. "Can I get you some coffee or tea or anything?"

Harriet gave Cordelia a thankful smile. "No, thanks. I can't stay long." She gestured toward the door to the courtyard and began to follow an anxious Doyle toward it. "I'll just be going outside, I guess. It was nice to see you, Cordelia. Get well soon, okay?"

"Thanks. Good to see you, too." Cordelia replied quizzically as Doyle hurried Harriet away toward the courtyard.

Cheating a final glance back at Cordelia, Doyle was greeted by a withering look. He would've been concerned if it weren't for the fact that things between he and Cordelia were already so bad that it hardly mattered. Then again, with Doyle's luck, Cordelia would probably jump to some absurd conclusion that he and Harriet were getting back together. As if, that would ever happen. Eh, who was he kidding, he'd rather have Cordelia assume that than the truth. Not that she could _possibly_ guess the truth. Frankly, he wasn't even sure what the truth was at this point.

"What's wrong with you?" Harriet demanded, as soon as the two of them had exited into the privacy of the sunlit courtyard.

"What's wrong?!" Doyle echoed with annoyance. "What's wrong is ya shouldn't have come here! That's what's wrong."

"If you miss appointments I make for you, and then don't call me back for weeks, this is what happens." Harriet fired back, equally as annoyed. And really she did have a point. "What did you expect me to do, Francis? Just forget that you ever came to me for help?"

Doyle let out a long agitated breath as he turned his back on Harriet and paced several steps in the opposite direction, then about-faced and paced back toward her. "Yeah, I get why ya came." He sighed heavily again, and then plopped himself down on one of the stone benches. "The thing of it is—Cordy doesn't know about any o' this. No one knows but you and Angel, and I'd really rather keep it that way, yeah?"

Harriet stared down at him, steely at first, but then her eyes softened as she nodded in understanding and moved to sit down on the bench beside him. "Y'know, when I saw Cordelia out there, I was relieved. I thought you two might've worked things out."

"It means she works here again." Doyle clarified. "That's all it means. We're still ex."

The small downward turn of Harriet's mouth, told him that her disappointment was sincere. "How did she get shot?"

"A job gone wrong." Doyle explained unhappily.

She lifted a finger to indicate the dark bruising evident on the bridge of his nose. "Is that a job gone wrong, too?" She wondered.

"Ah, no. I fell." He replied honestly. "Looks worse than it is."

"You fell?" Harriet asked with increased concern. "Francis, I feel like I have to ask… How much are you drinking these days?"

Doyle snorted at the direction of her questioning and dropped his head into his hands to massage his forehead—for once, he had a headache not caused by his visions; stress being the likely culprit. "I wasn't drunk when I fell. Let's just move on to the real reason ya came?" He begged her, lifting his head to take in their courtyard surroundings. The smell of jasmine hung thick in the air, which Doyle found pleasant most of the time, but suffocating when in the midst of a conversation he'd rather not be having. "You're here 'cause of the demon, not the man. And as of late, I can barely remember I'm a demon. Maybe I overreacted."

"Well, now I know you're lying." Harry snorted in reply. "I know damn well not a day goes by where you don't remember you're half demon."

She had him there. Not a day went by, not an hour, minute, second, less than that went by. It was a permanent thorn in his side. Or spike might be more accurate.

"You agreed to the tests." She reminded him. "Why have you changed your mind?"

"I'm fighting it—whatever this is." He declared, although he wasn't sure that was, in fact, an accurate description of what he was doing. Perhaps, _denying_ would be a more appropriate word. "I haven't called on the demon, haven't _let_ it come. Maybe if I can keep it under wraps, I'll never have to see what comes next. I could live the rest of my probably-short-life just like this."

Harry stared at him with an unreadable expression for a long beat. "Well, I'm not going to lie, Francis, the fact that you're able to do anything close to 'controlling' it bodes well for your prognosis, don't you think?" She pointed out. "If you were really changing—the way you originally thought—I doubt the power of your will would overcome anything."

"Yeah?" He wondered, trying not to let himself get too hopeful. He could never get too hopeful when it came to his demon DNA; it always managed to screw him in the end.

"In my opinion, that makes a much stronger case for at least _part_ of this being psychosomatic, as I suggested before." Harriet affirmed. "But you're not going to be able to do that forever. Eventually, you'll sneeze yourself back into the spikes. And there's still the question of how you've been able to access your demon senses in your human form… which is why I still think you should see Dr. Golding."

He tightened his jaw, clenching his teeth together as he considered what kind of answer he wanted to give her. Coming up with nothing that sounded remotely convincing in his head, he settled for the truth. "Maybe I don't wanna know the truth, Harry. Whatever will be will be, yeah?"

"And until then you'll just go on assuming the worst, isn't that right, Francis?" Harriet replied, with a small shake of her head. "Haven't you ever heard of peace of mind? Lord knows you need that—just look at you."

"That obvious, huh?" Doyle asked wryly.

"Only to someone who knows you." Harriet answered, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. "I'll come with you, if you want. Hold your hand while they draw blood—since I know you're a big baby about that sort of thing. Which makes me wonder how you ever sat through getting those tattoos of yours."

"Heavy drinking mostly." Doyle admitted with a sheepish grin. "I'm guessing the doc won't approve of that method." He lifted his hand to cover hers, which was still placed supportively on his shoulder. He squeezed it in thanks. "Ya drive a real hard bargain, Harry. But if that doctor pal o' yours is still willing to see me… this time, I'll be there. I promise."

"This time I'm going with you, so you have no choice." She reminded him.


	51. Needles and Pins

**"Needles and Pins"**

Doyle sat uncomfortably in the sterile medical office. He couldn't remember the last time he'd willingly been in such a place. His brief hospital stay last spring had been anything but voluntary, and he'd fled the premises as soon as the heavy sedatives they'd had him on wore off. He still considered it a miracle that the doctors hadn't discovered his family secret while he was there, but apparently, he presented as a normal human both inside and out when wearing his human face. And it was Harriet's quick thinking that had explained the anomalies in his blood work.

Harriet. She had kept her word—she was there with him. Not in the exam room itself, but she sat in the waiting room. She had probably only come so that he wouldn't skip out on the appointment again, but, regardless of her reasons, it did bring him comfort to know he could rely on her. She may have had to nag him into doing this, but he was grateful for her persistence. She was right about the peace of mind thing—if he didn't get it soon, he'd probably end up destroying himself one way or another. His head hadn't really been in the game for far too long, and in his line of work that kind of distraction was particularly dangerous. No, he had to know the truth, even if it wasn't what he wanted to hear.

Worst case scenario he'd get confirmation of what he believed anyway. There was nothing worse than that. Absolutely nothing. Even if the doctor gave him a death sentence, he'd consider it better news than the alternative—living a long, healthy life as a demon.

The door opened, and in walked a bear of a man with a shock of dark hair and a white lab coat thrown over a shirt that looked vaguely like it belonged on a lumberjack. Doyle guessed he was roughly fifty, or so, but it was hard to determine his exact age. His face was bulbous, and his skin drooped heavy in multiple places, as if he'd gained and lost weight so many times that the skin was permanently stretched out of shape. Although he was an imposing figure, there was something innately comforting about him—something that put Doyle at ease even before the other man opened his mouth.

"You must be Francis." The doctor presumed, eying Doyle through his narrow eyes that seemed buried in the upper part of his face. "I'm Dr. Golding. Stephen, if you prefer—I'm not real uptight about titles."

Doyle reached out and shook the hand that was offered to him, surprised by the firmness of the grip. "Yeah, ah… you can call me Doyle. Harry's the only one who calls me Francis anymore. And my mum."

"Doyle it is." Dr. Golding nodded at that and made a note on the clipboard he held in his hand, before giving Doyle something that resembled a welcoming smile. "So, we might as well get right to it." He announced, in an authoritative manner, sitting himself down on a rolling stool near the steel counter mounted against the wall. "Harriet's told me a lot about you, but I don't know how much she's told _you_ about me."

"Ah, well, she told me that ya study, um…" Doyle cleared his throat and found himself hesitating. He was far too used to lying about the supernatural to speak freely to a doctor without second-guessing himself. "You know."

"Demons." Dr. Golding confirmed. "I mean, I still maintain my human practice; that's what pays the bills. But demonic medicine has been my real passion for more than a decade now. Which is why Harriet's brought you here—it's not a very broad field, I'm afraid." Golding slid his stool backward, and lifted a picture frame off the shelf. "I'm sure you're asking yourself why I would concern myself with the health of the demon population. Maybe this will answer your question."

The doctor extended the picture frame outward, indicating that Doyle should take it, which he eventually did, slowly but surely. Looking down at the photo in his hands, Doyle recognized the smiling face of Stephen Golding, M.D., perhaps a few years younger than he was now, with his arm around a chubby teenage girl with a pretty smile. "Oh sorry, underneath that one." Dr. Golding instructed.

Doyle wasn't sure what he meant at first, but then realized that the photo he was looking at was actually stuck to the top of the frame, covering the photo that was actually mounted within. Doyle did as instructed, and found a family photo below the first—this one featured Golding sitting at a picnic table with his arm around a woman, who was very obviously a demon. Seated at the couple's feet were the teenage girl from the first photo, who appeared to be completely human, and a younger boy, who did not. There were smiles all around. The perfect family photo, except that it had to be hidden on account of half the occupants of the photo being non-human in appearance.

"Your wife and son are demons." Doyle observed.

"And my daughter, although you'd never know it to look at her." Golding explained. "She takes after her papa, poor thing. Real self-conscious about her weight. But, you can't fight genetics."

"No, ya can't." Doyle agreed, handing both photographs back to the doctor. "Nice family ya got there."

"Thank you. Now does that answer your question?" Dr. Golding wondered, referring to the question that Doyle had never actually asked. "Or, would you like to know more about my work before we begin?"

"Ah, no." Doyle replied. It wasn't the work itself Doyle was most curious about. "I mean, yeah, it answers the question 'bout why you're doing this..."

"But, you do have questions." Golding noted, writing something else down on his clipboard. "Why would an average-Joe like me marry a demon? Is that what you're wondering?"

Doyle nodded, but had the sense to drop his eyes to the floor as he did so.

"Why does anyone marry anyone?" Golding asked rhetorically. "I fell in love, of course. When I met Amahla, I knew she was the one. And I didn't care that she was different, I didn't care that what we had might not be understood by other people. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her." He paused briefly, trying to determine if anything he was saying was actually being absorbed by the sullen half-demon sitting on the examination table in front of him. "Don't get me wrong, it's never been easy for us. It took a long time for her family to accept me."

"For _them_ to accept _you_?!" Doyle sputtered with surprise, his eyes practically bugging out of his head in disbelief.

"You have to understand, they are very traditional folks, Doyle." Golding explained easily, unfazed by Doyle's reaction. "You think they wanted their baby girl running around with a _human_? Heck, they'd spent most of their lives hiding from humans—fearing them. I was their worst nightmare, but eventually they saw that my love for their daughter was genuine. And that made all the difference. Twenty two years of marriage later, we're still going strong."

Doyle blinked several times, feeling like he had gone slightly insane before walking into this room. He could hardly believe his ears. "Weren't ya worried 'bout having kids?" He asked in dismay. "Kids who'd never fit in—not in either world ya tried to raise 'em in."

Again, Golding nodded, not at all surprised or offended by Doyle's line of questioning. "We were concerned. I'd be lying if I told you otherwise." He admitted, folding his hands over the clipboard on his lap and leaning back on his stool. "But, we both wanted a family, and we believed that if we raised our children to be accepting of both cultures, they'd find their place in one of those worlds. Kids are adaptable, you see. You'll find that if you love them and teach them to love themselves, well, that's really all they need—that and three square meals a day. And a Gameboy, according to my son."

Doyle found himself involuntarily frowning at Golding's overly simple declaration. It couldn't be that simple. Nothing was that simple. Especially not being raised as a half-demon in an otherwise human world.

"You don't believe me." Golding noted, seeing right through Doyle's silence. "That's not surprising. From what Harriet's told me, you weren't raised like my children, Doyle—you were lied to for most of your life. And you were raised believing that demons are inherently bad." Doyle felt himself nod in agreement, almost imperceptivity, but he couldn't deny his Catholic upbringing or the imagery that had been hardwired into his brain as a result. Demons _were_ bad. Even the good ones. "That's exactly why it's so hard for you to accept who you are now. Like I said, children are adaptable. Much more so than adults."

"I didn't even know demons were a real thing—not until I saw one looking back at me in the mirror one day." Doyle added, his voice coming out low and gruff.

"I can only imagine what a shock that must've been." Golding said sympathetically. "And I can understand why you'd be afraid to lose the identity you've known all your life. That'd be frightening for any man, woman or demon."

Doyle swallowed hard as he heard his greatest fear spoken out loud—the fear he'd been living with every moment since he'd first found out what he was. The fear that he had let rule his life for far too long—not to mention ruin it on more than one occasion.

"That's why you're here." Golding continued, leaning forward to make sure he had Doyle's rapt attention. "I'm going to work with you to find answers, Doyle. And, a treatment, if it becomes evident that you require one. I'm willing to keep going until we find those two things, I just need you to work with me—to be honest. To trust me. Nothing we discuss in this room will go any further than these walls. None of your test results will be shared with anyone other than you—not Harriet, not anyone. Not unless you want them to be."

"Yeah… alright." Doyle agreed, feeling a wave of relief break over him as he heard Golding's assurances. He wanted this man's help, like he'd never wanted anyone's help before. And just for one moment, he allowed himself to have one little shred of hope again. "I trust ya."

* * *

"Good morning!" Cordelia said breezily, as she swept past Wesley on her way to her own desk. She had a gym bag over her shoulder and her hair pulled back from her face, clearly having just arrived from some kind of physical activity. "Isn't it a beautiful day?"

Wesley, who had just finished pouring himself a cup of coffee, looked up with surprise, searching the empty lobby for someone other than the two of them. Finding no one else present, he looked back at the overly cheerful woman who'd plopped down her bag, and was now sifting through the mail that was piled on her desk. "Why yes. I should say so." He said with mild confusion. "Hardly a day that isn't sunny and 22 degrees here in sunny SoCal."

"Don't you mean, 72 degrees? Geez, remind me never to go to England if 22 degrees is what you consider warm over there." She remarked, tossing the mail back down on the desk with disinterest.

"My mistake, 72 it is. Still hard for me to think in Fahrenheit sometimes." Wesley replied, taking a sip from his mug. "I can't help but notice you're rather chipper this morning. Is there a reason aside from the pleasant weather?"

Cordelia looked up at Wesley and gave a little shrug. "Yeah, I think it's this new yoga class I joined." She replied nonchalantly. "It's really helped me reclaim my body after everything that happened, y'know?"

"That's wonderful to hear." Wesley enthused on her behalf. "It does appear that your rehab is nearly complete—the cane is but a distant memory."

"Yeah, that—but more importantly it's tightened things I didn't think could get any tighter! Check me out!" She declared, turning sideways to demonstrate just how _tight_ everything appeared to be, which left Wesley blushing slightly after his eyes had digested the evidence of said tightness.

"Yes, you're looking… quite fit." Wesley averted his eyes into his mug, and then anywhere else in the room aside from Cordelia.

"Wow, I've never seen you turn that color before." Cordelia teased, with a satisfied giggle. "I'm going to take that as a sign that my mission has been accomplished."

"And what mission would that be?" Wesley inquired, recovering himself as he began to head across the reception area to his office.

"To achieve my previous levels of supreme hotness, of course." She replied with an expression that clearly said _duh_ , following along behind Wesley so she could continue their conversation from his office doorway. "I sort of owe it to Harmony, in a weird way. Before she showed her true evil colors, we actually had some quality girl-talk. She asked me if I wanted to go back to high school and relive my glory days—to that I said, _big no_. But, y'know what I wasn't gonna say no to? All that pampering I used to get. All the me-time." She waved her index finger in the air as she complete her declaration. "Not to mention the tan! That's why I decided _not_ to look at desk-duty as a bad thing, but as a much-needed break. Time to take care of _myself_ for a while before taking care of everyone else."

"Well, Cordelia, I'm glad there was a silver lining to Harmony's visit." Wesley said, settling himself behind his desk. "You have worked hard, and you've been through a lot. You most certainly deserve some time for yourself. And it's obviously been good for you. You look healthier than ever." He gave an encouraging little fist pump. "Ready to get back out there!"

"Oh, real smooth there, Wes." She remarked, folding her arms over her chest. "Is that your way of implying my me-time is over and I should be back in the field, keeping all kinds of crazy hours?"

"Nothing of the sort." Wesley insisted, backtracking just a bit. He removed his glasses and began to clean them rapidly with his handkerchief. "That's for you to determine, of course. I trust that you'll let me know when you do feel up to it."

Cordelia tilted her head as she gave it a brief moment of thought. "I guess I'll see how I feel after my audition tomorrow afternoon."

"Pardon?" Wesley asked, rubbing the smudge off this glasses and placing them back on his face so he could properly look back up at the woman hovering in his doorway. "Audition?"

"I figured, what good is supreme hotness without the adoring fans—so, a big part of my me-time has been spent stalking my agent." Cordelia explained. "And it seems to have paid off, because he actually got me a couple of auditions!" She clapped her hands excitedly and hopped up and down, seemingly oblivious to Wesley's befuddled stare.

"You mind watching the phone for a while?" She requested, moving out of the doorway to his office and tossing her final words over her shoulder. "I really need a shower."

With that, Cordelia was gone and Wesley sat behind his desk with a mild sense of déjà vu. It did seem like Cordelia had found herself again, he just wasn't sure which version of herself that was.

* * *

 **A/N- We are getting there, guys! And by "there" I mean I'm done torturing you with extreme angst. If it feels like things are looking up, that's because they are. It's (mostly) a cake walk from here. So, thank you for sticking with this story. In my opinion, the best is yet to come. ;)**


	52. Dead End, Pt 1

**"Dead End," Part I**

Cordelia happily busied herself with the business of coffee making. It was a quiet morning, amidst a quiet week within a quiet month. Wesley was in his office enjoying the fact that he had an office, while everyone else continued to wonder when the novelty of being boss would wear off. Gunn and Angel were around somewhere—probably perusing the antique weapons up for auction on ebay. Boy oh boy, did she regret introducing those two to that particular can of worms. They had managed to rack up quite a bit of credit card debt in far too short a time. Which was exactly why she was going to make them return the Viking sword. There was simply no need for a Viking sword. Not when they already had plenty of non-Viking swords to choose from that did not come with such a hefty price tag.

This was the new normal it seemed. And it was certainly nice to have something resembling "normal" again. She hummed softly to herself as she finished loading the coffee grounds into the machine and pressed the start button, so wrapped up in her own little routine that she didn't realize anyone else was present until he spoke.

"Ah…'Mornin." Doyle's voice, but not Doyle's typical morning greeting. Or, rather, he had no typical morning greeting for her these days, seeing how he so rarely appeared in the lobby anytime that could be classified as "morning," nor did he generally greet her with actual words. His old nickname for her, once part of his standard morning greeting, had been abandoned along with all facets of their previous relationship.

Doyle, in the lobby before noon. That was not part of the new normal. She turned around to take in his appearance, and noted his now all-too-common under-eye bags and bloodshot pupils. Still, he was awake, which was something. Perhaps, he'd spent the previous night only half in the bottle, rather than all in, as she suspected was the reason for his usual late-risings.

"Good morning." She said with the hint of surprise, managing a polite, but distant, smile. He had all but become a stranger to her—adhering to her request that they be co-workers and nothing more. "The coffee should be ready soon."

"Thanks." He replied, moving toward the array of mugs to select a rather non-descript one for himself.

She wasn't used to standing by the coffee maker while Doyle was there. Usually, by the time he rolled into the lobby, she was safely seated behind her desk, which made it easy for her to feign busyness to avoid any awkward encounters of the ex kind. And she could very well do that now, although she had yet to finish her own morning routine, which included a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

Walking away from him would've been easy; she could come back for the coffee. But, she found herself stuck in place, cheating furtive glances at him out of the corner of her eye as she tried to remember what kind of topics they used to discuss back when they'd first met, when they were just co-workers and nothing more.

It occurred to her that they'd never really been such a thing. He'd been her friend almost immediately, whether she'd acknowledged that fact or not. And she had to admit, actively trying not to be friends with him took a lot of effort. Especially now that she had come so far in her personal recovery. The only problem was, she wasn't sure how to get back to where they once had been—as friends. She wasn't sure he even wanted such a thing, for that matter. Oftentimes, she got the distinct feeling he didn't, which was a rather bitter pill to swallow, even though she knew it was at least partly of her own making.

She'd set the ground rules, after all. He was simply respecting her wishes. She couldn't really fault him for that. Although, she had set ground rules for Angel as well, and by some miracle, the socially inept vampire had enough sense to disregard her ground rules and make things up to her with some good old-fashioned bribery. _Why couldn't Doyle be taking a page out of Angel's handbook this time, huh?_

Doyle began to slow his movements, probably noticing that Cordelia still hovered close by, and beginning to wonder why that was the case. He tilted his head, giving her a curious expression.

"Just waiting for my coffee." She said, by way of explanation for her continued presence by his side. A lame excuse if ever she'd heard one.

"I'll pour ya a cup when it's ready." He offered politely, reaching out to select a second mug. She saw his hand land on her favorite one. Of course, he'd still know which mug she preferred. He could pretend to be a stranger, but that didn't actually make him one. Not completely anyway.

"Okay." She agreed taking a cue from his politeness and opting to graciously take him up on his co-workerly offer. But no sooner had she turned her back on him, than she heard one of the mugs go shattering to the ground, causing her to jump. "Geez, butterfingers…?"

She whirled back in his direction, the rest of her snarky comment hovering on her lips… but it died there as she saw his expression. His mug was the one broken on the ground, hers still sat on the countertop where he'd wisely left it. He was blinking rapidly and grasping the side of the counter so tight that his knuckles had turned white. He grunted out her name in a desperate plea. "Cordy..."

Then a rip-roaring vision took over his entire nervous system.

Cordelia watched as his face tensed into a mask of pain. He began to double over and she didn't waste another moment watching him—not when she could be catching him. Which is what she tried to do. She wrapped her arms around him, attempting to keep him upright, but instead the weight and violence of whatever was going on inside his mind ended up dragging her to the ground along with him. They both crashed to the floor in a heap, but her arms remained around him all the while, and she scrambled to pull him close to her, trying desperately to calm his writhing body, which seized in pain and terror.

"Shhhhh, Doyle, it's okay." She murmured to him, although she knew he couldn't hear her over the cacophony in his head. His visions had never looked pleasant, but Cordelia had noticed an increased brutality in the last few she'd witnessed. And by the looks of things, this was the worst one yet, aside from the never-ending visions that had once sent him to the hospital. "Wesley! Angel!"

She didn't know why she was bothering to scream the names of the others. If they couldn't hear Doyle screaming his head off, there was no way they'd hear her calls. Wesley, however, was already there, hovering over them.

It was a long one, extending Doyle's agony for what felt like a small eternity. Just when she had started to truly panic, just when she had convinced herself that history was repeating itself and this vision was never going to end—it did, as suddenly as it began. Doyle stopped screaming in pain, and blinked his eyes open, revealing the piercing irises hidden inside, drowned in a pool of tears.

Angel and Gunn had arrived as well, and Cordelia could sense them hovering over the place where she sat sprawled on the floor with Doyle pulled tightly into her lap. "He needs water." She heard herself say, never taking her eyes off the man who was now quietly sobbing in her arms, burying his face into the folds of her blouse. "Someone get him some water."

"I got it." Gunn's voice replied, and one of the shadows from overhead disappeared.

Cordelia found herself stroking the hair back from Doyle's forehead, doing whatever she could to try and soothe him, but he was inconsolable. His body shuddered as he continued to sob, and mumbled something completely incoherent into the material of her shirt.

She found herself looking up into Angel's equally troubled face. "It's a bad one, Angel. He's not okay."

"Just give him a few minutes." Angel said gently, squatting down so he could get closer to the two people on the floor. He reached out and gripped Doyle's shoulder tightly. "He will be."

* * *

Doyle sat hunched over on the sofa where they'd decided to move him. He sipped from the water glass in his shaky hand, and then passed it to Cordelia who was seated beside him, worrying over his haggard appearance. Her hand remained on his back, rubbing gently in small circles, as she took the water glass from him and passed it absently to Angel who was closest to where they sat.

"That's ah… all I could see." He choked, having finished relaying the horrific details of what he'd seen unfold in his mind.

For the umpteenth time in the last several minutes, Doyle brought his fingers up to his eyelids and examined them, needing to ensure they were still there. He kept flashing back to the feeling of the knives plunging into his eye sockets, at the hands of a man who felt as average as a man could get. A man who had, only moments earlier, been reading a newspaper and eating breakfast. A man who had no reason to do such a horrific thing.

"He must've been crazy." Gunn suggested from where he stood several feet away.

"He didn't feel crazy." Doyle responded, dropping his hands from his eyes, but remaining hunched forward with his elbows glued to his knees. "He felt _normal_."

"Then he simply started to, uh…?" Wesley asked the question, and pointed toward his bespectacled face, but trailed off before getting too verbally specific.

"Stab himself." Doyle clarified bluntly. "Repeatedly. Like I said."

"Yeah, see, normal people don't do that." Gunn noted.

Having said the words, Doyle had yet another flash of the knives in his eyes, and brought his hands up to cover his face once again. Cordelia's hand still remained on his back, and he felt her shift a little closer to him as he folded over himself. It was her gentle, but urgent, voice that spoke several inches from his ear. "And you couldn't see where it happened?"

Doyle shook his head in the negative, without removing his hands from his face. He mumbled his reply into his palms. "A kitchen." He said with obvious frustration at not being able to get any more specific. "In a house… or an apartment. Ah… I really don't know."

"Don't worry. We'll figure it out." Angel spoke up from nearby. "We'll find him."

"Easier said than done." Gunn retorted. "We don't even know if the guy's dead or alive."

"Which is why we'll start with both the hospitals and the morgues." Wesley instructed. "Cordelia, perhaps you could start calling the former—pretend to be a concerned relative or some such. I'll check out the latter. Gunn, speak to your crew and any other human contacts that might be of help; Angel, reach out to the demon community. Doyle…"

They all turned their concerned eyes back on the crumpled half-demon barely capable of sitting upright on the couch. There was really no question that he was in no shape to be doing anything more than he currently was. In fact, he probably should be doing far less, by the looks of things.

"I'll hit the streets with Angel." Doyle croaked, rubbing his already-irritated eyes repeatedly, and making an attempt to scoot forward off the couch. "Just give me a sec."

Cordelia's hand stopped its rhythmic rubbing motion, and her head shot upward to share an alarmed look with Wesley. But it was Gunn who cut to the chase. "You'll be hitting the streets literally, if you try and walk in 'em." He pointed out. "I wouldn't sweat it, D. We got this covered."

"I really do have to agree." Wesley added more discreetly. "You're in no condition to be doing any legwork at the moment, Doyle. I suggest you rest for the time being and when you're feeling up to it, perhaps you could assist Cordelia in calling the hospitals."

Doyle gave Wesley a pained expression at first, looking very much like he intended to stand in spite of the objections of everyone around him. Instead, he had another stabbing flashback, and lifted his fingers back up to his eyeballs, sinking back into the couch cushions in defeat. He closed his eyes and a slight nod was the only other acknowledgment of his agreement to stay put.

The others all took that as a sign to scatter to their designated assignments. Except for Cordelia, who had removed her hand from its place on Doyle's back, but hadn't removed herself from the sofa cushion beside him.

Had he not been in such awful shape, he may have taken a moment to enjoy her closeness—enjoy the fact that, at the current moment anyway, she wasn't a complete stranger to him. As it was, he couldn't enjoy anything. Not when he had so much torment still rolling around in his head. Not when he still wasn't convinced his eyes were still where they were supposed to be.

"Can I get you anything?" He heard her ask. "Aspirin? Tea?" And then slightly more reluctantly. "Whiskey?"

"I'll be fine, love." He heard himself answer in a semi-convincing voice. Sadly, he didn't think even the very finest single malt would cut it at this point. Which wasn't to say that he didn't want it; merely that he didn't want her getting it for him. "I'm just gonna rest here for a bit, yeah?"

He felt the cushions shift as she finally moved away from him, crossing the lobby to fulfill her own part in the new case. He didn't need to open his eyes to see the worried expression she cheated back in his direction. Nor did he need empathic abilities to know her concern was genuine.


	53. Dead End, Pt 2

**"Dead End," Part II**

Cordelia was seated at the front reception counter, with an open phonebook spread out before her, along with a list of rapidly crossed-out hospital names on the pad that sat on top of the phonebook.

"Yeah, he's my father." She spoke into the receiver that was balanced in the crook of her neck. She looked up as Angel walked through the front door, shaking his head in the negative, in answer to her silent question. "His name? Oh right, his name is, uh… James. Stewart. That's right, just like the actor." She cringed at her own ridiculous cover story; she'd definitely been at this for far too long. "He probably doesn't remember his name, though. Y'know on account of him going completely mental and stabbing himself in the face. Does that sound like anyone who's been admitted today?" Her face fell as she received the same answer, she'd received from all the other hospitals she'd called, and she added another cross out to her ever-growing list. "Are you sure? Yeah. Alright. Thanks."

She slammed the phone down with frustration, and sighed heavily. "Nothing, nothing and more nothing."

"I'm afraid I have found much the same." Wesley declared as he entered the front doors and crossed to stand beside Angel on the opposite side of the counter.

"Gunn called a few minutes ago to report his big nothing." Cordelia grumbled. "Which puts us all at square _zero_."

"We're just gonna have to hope Doyle can remember something else that will help us." Angel said with a frown.

Wesley turned to search the empty lobby before turning back to address Cordelia. "Where is he?"

"Well, he sat there on the couch like a vegetable until about noon, then he went to his room to 'lie down.'" Cordelia explained, using air quotes to make it clear that she didn't think Doyle was merely lying down. "Y'know how sometimes it takes him a while to get over a vision, but he pretends like it's no big deal? He's not even trying to pretend this time."

She tried to keep her voice breezy and slightly judgmental, to cover up the fact that she was actually extremely worried about Doyle. She was trying not to be, but old habits died hard. It was impossible to see him this low, and not want to help lift him up. That's what friends did.

Even if they weren't friends.

"Angel, would you mind talking to him?" Wesley requested. "Ask him if he can… dig a little deeper, perhaps."

Angel nodded and had taken one step away from the counter, when Cordelia jumped off her stool. "I'll go!" She announced, a little too adamantly. "I could use a break from all this sitting around. But, hey, feel free to pick up where I left off." She waved toward the open phonebook, which featured the lengthy list of medical facilities in and around the Los Angeles area.

If Angel and Wesley found it odd that Cordelia would volunteer to go speak with Doyle, they didn't say so, nor did they protest at her willingness to do so. She made her way hurriedly across the lobby and hopped onto one of the waiting elevators, hitting the button that would take her to the fifth floor, where Doyle's room was tucked away in a far corner.

Once she reached his closed door, she started to second-guess herself, but she forced herself to shake it off. She was doing her job, after all. They needed information, and Doyle was the only one who had access to it. Someone had to talk to him, and she was highly skilled in the art of talking. Once upon a time she was even highly skilled in the art of talking to _him,_ specifically.

She knocked and waited and then knocked again. Hearing nothing, she decided to try the doorknob, which as luck would have it, turned out to be unlocked. She wondered if he always kept it that way, or if he had been expecting someone to come up and check on him at some point. If he was expecting someone, it probably wasn't Cordelia.

"Doyle?" She was careful not to speak too loudly as she stuck her head into the room, hovering in the doorway. "Can I come in?"

A grunt from across the dimly lit room was the only reply she got, but she took it as a yes. Opening the door further, she stepped inside Doyle's hotel room and gently shut the door behind her, letting it click into place as it closed.

She then crossed the stuffy room, sidestepping some of the clutter. A few boxes were piled in the corner, having never been unpacked from his various relocations. Clothes were discarded in small piles, along with a pair of beat up old sneakers that she didn't even know he owned. And bottles—there were bottles everywhere. It was giving her flashbacks to his old apartment, reminding her of the time she'd spent cleaning that old place, showing him with actions what she hadn't yet been able to put into words.

It made her sad to see how far he'd slipped back into old patterns. Sadder to know how much damage he was probably doing to himself as a result. Saddest of all to think that she could have probably prevented him from doing this, just by being there.

"Doyle?" She spoke his name again as she rounded to the side of his bed, and her eyes adjusted enough to see him laying there, flat on his stomach, his face buried somewhere between his forearm and the pillow beneath his head. "I'm sorry to wake you." She took a step forward and knocked over a half-filled bottle of alcohol, which immediately began soaking the carpet beneath her feet. "Crap." She muttered as she bent down to right the fallen bottle and searched for something to soak up the puddle. She settled on a t-shirt that hung from the side of the bed, and used it to hastily blot up the mess.

A rustling from the bed indicated that Doyle was rolling over, and she saw his head lift slightly from the pillows as he came to face her. "Cordy?" He asked in groggy confusion. "What are ya doin' here?"

Giving up on the puddle of whiskey, and figuring it really didn't make much of a difference considering the state of the rest of the room, she stood up and smoothed out her skirt. "I need to talk to you." She explained in an uncustomarily quiet voice, and then realizing how that sounded, she opted to clarify. "About your vision."

He exhaled loudly as he slowly began to sit up, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet landed directly in the puddle of whiskey beside the bed, and he wrinkled his brow in disgust as he lifted his soaking wet sock to ascertain what he'd just stepped in.

"How much did you have to drink?" Cordelia inquired without malice, carefully avoiding the puddle as she moved to sit down beside him on the side of the bed.

"Not nearly enough." He said dryly, his head falling back into his hands the way it had spent much of the morning, while he was on the couch. "Most o' those bottles are old."

Somehow that didn't make her feel any better.

This must have been how it was for him before. With no one there to hold him when he hurt, he turned to holding the bottle instead. A wave of anger started to rise within her, combatting the heavy sadness. She wanted him to be better than this. She knew he could be, and the fact that he chose not to be was profoundly disappointing.

Despite her feelings on his current lifestyle and living conditions she forced herself to focus on the task at hand. "We haven't been able to find anything." She said regretfully. "We need a little more to go on, maybe you can just… I don't know, replay the vision and see if there's anything you missed?"

"Replay it." Doyle snorted bitterly. "What makes y'think I ever stopped playin' it?"

"I know it hurts…" She sympathized.

"No, ya really don't." He grumbled back, but then he must've realized how combative he sounded and he reeled it back considerably. "I just, ah… I keep seeing the same things over and over. The newspaper, the cereal bowls…"

"Bowls?" Cordelia fixated on his choice of words, trying to walk him through the details. "As in, more than one?"

"Yeah." He agreed, starting to sound a little more hopeful as he talked through the images that had been pinballing around in his brain all day long. "Wife and kids, I'm thinkin'."

"Okay..." She encouraged him, tenderly placing a hand on his shoulder. "Is there anything else?"

Pushing himself to follow the kids-theme, Doyle shut his eyes tightly and flashed onto the moment when the knife went through the man's skull once again. It caused him to flinch involuntarily, but instead of trying to push the memories away, Doyle tried to cling to them, to see what happened next. And that's when he did see something.

"A book bag." He choked out with surprise, as he envisioned the blood-spattered item being lifted into frame. "It said… D-somethin'. Delaney or…?" He focused harder, fighting through the pain to see the blood-speckled letters stitched into the material. "Delancy Schools."

A smile broke out across Cordelia's face and she squeezed his shoulder in affirmation that he'd done well. "Good, that's really good." She assured him. "That will help a lot."

"Hope so." Doyle responded, as a stray tear escaped the corner of his eye and he lifted his palm to wipe it away. "I don't think there's anything else in there. Aside from all the blood." He swallowed hard as he tried to fight off the imagery he'd been previously working so hard to forget.

Cordelia took her hand away, but sat quietly beside Doyle as he collected himself. Looking at the dark and depressing setting of his room, she decided she couldn't leave him there. Even if that's where he wanted to be. It wasn't good for him. He needed his friends, and his friends were all downstairs.

"Do you think you can make it down to the lobby?" She asked, after a long moment had passed. "We could really use you down there."

Doyle didn't seem to question why he was needed, accepting that she was telling him the truth. He nodded slowly and rolled his shoulders backward as he stood up from the bed. Although he didn't move fast, he appeared stable on his feet, and Cordelia finally believed that he hadn't drank as much as she originally thought. This time, anyway.

Still, she wanted him to know that he had her support. That just because he was able to stand on his own, didn't mean he couldn't lean on her if he wanted to.

She moved toward him as he stepped into his boots, and reached out an arm toward him, taking him by surprise. "You look like you could still use some help." She reasoned, flashing him the semblance of a smile and hoped he saw it as the peace offering it was meant to be.

For an extended moment she believed he was going to reject her offer and tell her he was fine, but then he surprised her by placing a hand on her shoulder to balance himself. She took it a step farther, encouraging him to sling his arm fully around her shoulders, and slipping her own arm around his waist to brace him there.

The two of them exited the room together and made their way downstairs to help the others, side-by side and step-by-step.

* * *

Cordelia leaned her palm against her cheek, her elbow resting on the countertop in front of her. Every so often she'd cheat a glance at the man seated on the couch in the center of the lobby, who was flipping through the obituaries, searching for any names that popped out at him, in the off chance that there was something subliminal still locked away in the recesses of his brain.

He looked marginally better today, which was to say, he wasn't hunched over in a ball or hiding in his room. But he clearly hadn't slept. Or, if he had, it hadn't been the natural kind of sleep that one gets when tired, as much as the forced unconsciousness that comes when you've given your body no other choice.

"He needs food." She said out loud.

"Huh?" Angel, who was standing on the other side of the counter, leafing through a directory of the Los Angeles County United School District, looked up at her with confusion.

"Doyle. Someone needs to feed him." She clarified, rolling her eyes lightly. "He's wasting away—probably due to his mostly-liquid diet. I think he's gone a little overboard with the _self_ - _medicating_ , if you catch my drift. Just look at him."

Angel slowly turned his head to peek over his right shoulder, also taking in Doyle's rather peaked appearance. The vampire shrugged as he turned back to face Cordelia. "Yeah, I guess he's been hitting the bottle a little harder than usual the last few, um… months."

"Months?!" Cordelia was aghast as she gave Angel a withering glare. "And in all those months, you did _nothing_ to try and encourage him to stop?" Her eyes were nearly bugging out of her head as she shook her head in rebuke. "You know how he is, Angel. When he is down on his luck, he goes to that dark, broody, scary place in which he wallows. The one you are oh-so-familiar with yourself. Except, instead of beating up other people and carrying out crazy revenge fantasies, he beats himself up. Generally, targeting the liver-region."

At least Angel had the decency to look chagrined. "I, well… it was sorta recently that I had the whole epiphany. Prior to that I was kind of—"

"A self-absorbed ass?" Cordelia finished for him, with an accusatory arch of her brow.

"I was gonna say going through some stuff of my own." Angel mumbled. "I've been here for him lately, though."

"Oh, really?" Cordelia huffed. "Because all I've seen you doing lately is kissing up to me, Wesley and Gunn so we'll forgive you. Where in all that have you been making things up to Doyle?"

Angel shrugged, looking more than a little ashamed of himself. "We've talked. A little… and I, uh… might've mentioned the drinking. I think he's doing better than he was before. I mean, aside from this vision thing."

"I'm sorry, did you just say he's doing _better_? Better than _what_ exactly?!" She gaped at Angel, her brain going into overdrive as it started to process just how bad things might've gotten during her absence. "He might put on a good show sometimes, but he's clearly in a bad way. And I don't just mean the vision—although, that hasn't helped." She sighed heavily, and gave up trying to explain something that she felt Angel should probably know by now—and very likely, did know, on some level. "Anyway, there's no time like the present to make up for your epic failure in the best friend department." She lifted her pencil and subtly tipped it in Doyle's direction. "You should go get him a sandwich."

"A sandwich?" Angel asked dumbly.

"I'm not saying that'll solve all his problems, but it's a start." She clarified, as she lifted a post-it note from the holder on the edge of the counter and began scribbling the very specific list of ingredients that Doyle preferred to find between two slices of bread. "He needs to know someone cares about him—not the visions or his duty, but _him_ —that's the only way to help him." She finished writing and passed the slip of paper over to Angel. "That's his favorite."

Angel read through the sandwich order and looked back up at Cordelia with mild puzzlement. "Maybe _you_ should, um… y'know. Get the sandwich."

"Don't worry, the deli down the street has a really big awning." She replied, assuming that Angel's hesitation was sunlight-related.

"No, I mean… maybe you wanna show him _you_ care?" Angel responded.

"I don't care." She snapped back at the vampire standing across from her. Squaring her shoulders, she made herself as tall as possible, as she explained her logic. "I _can't_ care. Because if I care, that would lead to friendship, and friendship is very obviously out of the question for us."

"It is?" Angel asked, continuing to wear his most clueless look of all.

"Duh." Cordelia blustered, annoyed that she had to explain something this obvious. "He's my ex. Which makes friendship..." Searching for a proper descriptive word and coming up with nothing, Cordelia opted to use a more relevant example. "Remember when you and Buffy tried to be friends?"

Angel's expression said it all.

"I'll get the sandwich." He replied, sticking the post-it note in his pocket and heading toward the rear of the lobby to slip out the backdoor.

Once she was alone, Cordelia found her eyes migrating from the page in front of her toward the Irishman still seated quietly in the center of the room, idly massaging his temple.

Nope, she didn't care. Not one bit.

Except… she knew how good a man he was, and hated to see him suffer, by his own hand or anyone else's. Sure, he had his flaws, but who didn't? Doyle's flaws were forgivable; they always had been. In fact, the only one who had a problem forgiving Doyle was Doyle himself. It would have been so much easier to turn her back on him if he was some lying, cheating, selfish ass… but, then he wouldn't be Doyle at all.

So, maybe she did care. It was as natural as breathing. And maybe she had to finally accept that fighting it was futile.


	54. Dead End, Pt 3

**"Dead End," Part III**

Doyle heard the door to the courtyard open and hurriedly took a final drag from his cigarette, before tossing it away into the dirt. Even if he hadn't known that Angel, Wesley and Gunn had gone off to Caritas, he would've known it was Cordelia who was slowly approaching from behind. He would recognize that perfume anywhere, not to mention all the other subtle aromas that clung to her from the soap she used to her favorite brand of fabric softener. And underneath all of that, he could smell _her,_ which was the most intoxicating scent of all.

"Hey." She said, as he turned his head to greet her. "I brought you some tea."

"Ah… thanks." He replied, reaching out to take the hot mug from her hands and flashing her a weak, but genuine, smile. "That's real nice of ya."

She hovered there for a moment, looking unsure what to do next, but then opted for easing herself onto the open seat beside him. Crossing her legs, she clasped her hands around her knee. "Wesley called—guess who was singing at Caritas."

"A certain tone-deaf vampire with a liking for Barry Manilow? Which is exactly why I opted not to tag along." Doyle quipped, raising the mug to his lips and then, realizing how hot the liquid was, he thought better of taking a sip just yet. He lowered it back down to his lap for safekeeping. "Think I'd take another knife in the eye before I willingly listen to _that_. Best friend or not."

"I was referring to Lindsey McDonald, actually." Cordelia corrected. "And apparently, he's pretty good."

"Shame to waste a good set of pipes on a bad egg like that." Doyle grumbled, giving the side of his head a rigorous scratch.

"Yeah, but that's not all." Cordelia went on, with a shake of her head. "He has _two_ hands again—and one of them, is directly related to our case."

"Wait. Are ya tellin' me what I think you're telling me?" Doyle asked with obvious distaste. "We've gotta work with that bastard again?"

"With his evil hand anyway." Cordelia confirmed. "Kinda brings back old memories, doesn't it?"

Doyle's frown only deepened as he reflected on the memories Cordelia was referring to—trying to save Lindsey's soul and finding that it was a fruitless effort. It had always belonged to the highest bidder. "Of wishin' I could kick that pretty boy halfway to Sunday? Yeah, memories."

"Of better times." She said simply, wearing a reminiscent smile. "B.D. Before Darla."

"Ah… yeah." Doyle agreed, clearing the frog that had suddenly made its way into his throat. "That, too." He stared down into the steaming cup that was propped in between his palms, and slowly reached down to place it at his feet. "I'm thinking pity's really worked in my favor the last couple o' days, huh? With you being so nice to me and all."

"You think the only reason I'd be nice to you is out of pity?" Cordelia objected; her voice remained calm and sweet, without the slightest hint of an argument. "Let's go with compassion instead. Or, better yet… concern."

"Alright then. Thanks for the concern." Doyle amended his choice of verb. "And the tea." He said gesturing down to the steamy mug at his feet. "I'm hoping ya had enough concern to put in a little somethin' extra in."

Cordelia's sudden reproachful glare told him he shouldn't have made that particular joke. "No, Doyle. I had enough of it, _not_ to put in a little something extra."

Her steely gaze took him aback, and he quickly realized just how serious she was. "Don't gimme that look, Princess. It's not as bad as all that."

"If you say so." She said doubtfully.

He settled into a frown as he shifted a few centimeters further away on the bench they both currently occupied. "Maybe we oughtta go back to the avoiding each other bit, yeah?"

"Is that what you really want?" She questioned, and he wasn't sure if he was just imagining it, but he swore she sounded a little forlorn when she asked. "You want us to keep acting like strangers until that's what we actually become?"

As tempted as he was to lie—so he wouldn't have to hear any more of the quasi-intervention he feared this to be—he really _didn't_ want to lie. Truth was, he'd been happily soaking in her pity, or compassion, or whatever she wanted to call it. He had been dreading the moment it would come to an end. So, he opted for the truth instead. "I don't want that, no."

"Good." She chirped, uncrossing her legs and leaning back on the heel of her right hand so her body naturally twisted in his direction. "Because I didn't come out here to fight with you, and I don't want to go back to ignoring you." He felt her eyes drilling into this profile, which caused him to look over at her. "I want us to be friends."

A slow wave of bewilderment rolled over Doyle as he absorbed and processed her words. He sat back as well, so he could face her more completely and study every detail of her expression. "Yeah? 'Cause I kinda thought…" He shrugged, figuring it was pretty obvious what he thought. "Ya said we couldn't."

"Out of all the times you decide to listen to me." She muttered under her breath. "Maybe I was wrong, okay?" She dropped her eyes to the several inches of concrete that separated them on the bench. "I thought it would feel forced and unnatural and awkward and all that other crap that most exes go through, but the truth is… we're not most exes. We're us. And the only thing that feels awkward and unnatural is us trying _not_ to be friends."

"It's been exhausting." Doyle admitted, quirking a brow in her direction. "Especially since your desk is so close to the coffee pot—not healthy for a fella to be walking around so under-caffeinated."

"I only asked you to be professional." Cordelia pointed out wryly. "You're the one who interpreted that as Cordelia-has-cooties."

Doyle couldn't help but chuckle at her assessment of his actions. "Ah, I never thought ya had cooties, love." He assured her with a wink. "Just claws."

He was more than a little amazed to see that his slight dabble into the flirting arena earned him an authentic smile from her. "I've missed you, Doyle." She said sincerely. "Seeing you buried in your newspaper everyday just isn't the same if I can't interrupt you to tell you how ugly your clothes are."

"Oh, and the insults to my person—you're saying those were the real sign of our friendship?" Doyle found the word to be bittersweet on his tongue, and yet still far sweeter than the 'nothing' she'd left him with before.

"Also a sign that you have awful taste." She teased, sticking out her tongue at him. "I'm not the only one who misses you, y'know. Clover's been beside herself for months. And Dennis has probably had just about all the Lifetime network he can stand." They both laughed together at the thought of Clover's feisty little yowl and Dennis' preference to watch the sports networks with Doyle. "You should really stop over and see them sometime. Okay, well, you wouldn't _see_ Dennis, because of the whole incorporeal thing, but I know he'd be happy to see you."

Doyle found himself grinning up at her, pleased to be on the receiving end of her smile once again. "I've missed ya, too." He said earnestly. "All of ya."

"So, we can do it, right?" She asked with growing enthusiasm. "We can be friends. The way we started out."

The grin only faltered slightly as Doyle realized the unintended truth behind that statement. They may have started out as friends, but on his end, there wasn't a day when he hadn't loved her as much more that that. Now they'd be friends again, _exactly_ the way they'd started. "I'm game, yeah."

"Good, because I have this audition coming up, and I could really use a scene partner who is _not_ Wesley." She said with a beleaguered eye roll. "He's so overdramatic that I can't keep a straight face. And don't even get me started on Gunn—he doesn't try at all. I might as well be rehearsing with a brick wall. Or worse, Angel."

"You're auditioning again?" Doyle asked raising his brows in mild surprise, which only continued to increase as he observed a slight blush appear on her cheeks.

She shrugged lightly as a small smile played across her lips. "I figure I owe this town one more chance to discover me."

Doyle continued to grin at her, enjoying the view. There was never a more beautiful sight than a happy Cordelia. "I'll help ya with the scene." He promised, opening his arms in a wide shrug. "What are friends for?"

She beamed back at him and opened her arms as well, but not quite with the same intent as he had. "Do you think we should hug?" She asked, with a hint of hopefulness in her voice. "Friends hug."

Doyle was nodding back at her before he could really consider the wisdom of such an action, and then her arms were around him, squeezing him tightly. And that was all it took. Doyle felt it then, the chemical reaction that occurred whenever they were close. The one that was going to make it hard to be nothing more than friends.

He was much slower to lift his own arms and wrap them around her, but once they slid into place, everything felt right again. And wrong at the same time. He closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair, secretly inhaling deeply. Enjoying the sensation of her nearness. Relishing in that single moment and wishing time could slow to a crawl so it wouldn't end.

The sweetness of having her close to him was twisted around the sorrow of knowing he'd lost a part of her that he'd probably never regain. He wanted to be happy; he wanted to feel relief. Instead he felt an overwhelming sadness that seemed to increase the longer his arms remained around her.

Which is why he finally let go, and felt her do the same. As they parted, the mood between them had shifted considerably, and where he'd seen her excitement and energy only a few seconds earlier, he now saw reservation. He saw his own sadness reflected in her face.

Then he saw her stand abruptly and flash him a hurried smile as she ran her hands down over the front of her skirt, smoothing out the material. "You should drink your tea." She said, reminding him of the abandoned mug at his feet. "I have some things to do… inside."

She walked away a little quicker than she should have. And Doyle wondered if she wasn't regretting every moment she'd spent in that courtyard, agreeing to a friendship that would always be laced with complications. No matter how hard they tried to ignore those complications. In the very least, she had to be regretting the hug.

No, it was never going to be easy to be her friend, and nothing more. But Doyle knew he wouldn't trade it for the world. Before he'd had nothing. Believed that _they_ were nothing.

Now he had her friendship. And that was something.

* * *

Angel had stuck his head in the door, lingering there with a questioning gaze. He didn't venture any further into Doyle's cluttered room until Doyle waved him inside.

"I'll keep ya posted if I have anymore of those headaches." Doyle was talking into the phone, pacing back and forth by the foot of his bed. He paid no mind to Angel who crept deeper into the room, looking for a place to stand that was out of Doyle's chosen path. "And I'll think about the rest of what ya said… yeah. Thanks."

Doyle paced back over to the handset and hung up the receiver. His demeanor giving nothing away to the curious vampire who stood in the corner, with his hands shoved deep inside his pockets.

"Headaches?" Angel asked with a slight quirk of his brow.

"That was the doctor Harriet set me up with." Doyle explained, needlessly gesturing down to the phone he'd so recently hung up. "He was calling with my test results."

"Oh." Angel responded, trying to read Doyle's expressionless expression and finding not a clue as to what the other man was thinking or feeling.

Shaking his head and moving away from the phone, Doyle retrieved two empty glasses and a mostly full bottle of whiskey from a dresser top and then used the items to direct Angel toward the balcony, which was the only part of the apartment free of clutter. It also had two chairs, which would allow them to make themselves comfortable as they observed the cityscape beyond.

"That business with Lindsey all settled?" Doyle asked, as he settled himself into one of the chairs.

Angel considered the second chair, but then opted to lean against the railing with his back to the scenery. "Yeah, the lab's gone. All the 'organ donors' were freed." The term donor was used loosely, of course. The organ donors in question had been anything but willing, and not all of them had been freed in the living sense of the word. But, the lab was no more; the case was closed. Turning to peer over his shoulder at the rows of headlights and taillights weaving through the city streets, Angel knew someone who couldn't be counted among them. "Lindsey's gone, too—left town. Doubt he'll ever come back."

"Can't say I'm sorry to see him go." Doyle remarked, balancing the two empty glasses on his lap and preparing to pour.

"Uh, maybe we should skip the drinks." Angel recommended, holding out a hand to halt Doyle before the pouring could commence.

"Cordy got to you, too, huh?" Doyle asked knowingly, the bottle hovering over the glasses, but a drop not yet being spilled. He glowered up at the vampire looming over him. "It's what we do, man. The drinking goes with the talking."

"Do we need to?" Angel countered. "I mean… did the doctor give you bad news?"

Doyle sighed, begrudgingly screwing the top back on the bottle and setting it aside on the floor, along with the glasses. He then sat back in his chair, bracing his hands on the armrests as if he was in for a bumpy ride. "I suppose that's all in the way ya look at it really."

"How are you looking at it?" Angel asked reasonably.

"Well, there's good and bad news—good news is he doesn't think I'm crazy, the way Harriet kept telling me I was." Doyle answered sardonically. "That's also the bad news."

Angel took that in, pausing to stare out at the horizon before turning back to the half-demon sitting tensely in front of him, prompting him to continue. "So, it's what you thought. You're changing?"

"No, it's not what I thought at all." Doyle answered simply, his dark mood belying his words.

"You're _not_ changing?!" Angel responded with surprise. "Well, that's _great_ news, right? That's what you wanted to hear." Noting the continuously glum expression on Doyle's face, Angel backtracked. "That's not what you wanted to hear?"

"No, yeah… I mean, I'm relieved. Don't get me wrong." Doyle clarified, lazily waving his hand for emphasis. "I'd rather be a sick man, than a healthy demon any day."

Angel caught the most important word in that sentence. "Sick?" He questioned. "What do you mean you're sick?"

"The tests were _inconclusive_ , which is a fancy way of saying the doc doesn't know what's actually wrong with me, but he knows what it's _doing_ to me—turns out all my problems are neurological." Doyle said with an unenthusiastic shrug. "There's damage to my brain. To the _human_ part of my brain. All these so-called symptoms of mine are just the demon trying to make up for it—more than that, it's trying to _heal_ me, as it so happens." Doyle paused, and lifted his hand to massage the bridge of his nose. "There's some bitter irony for ya. All this time I thought my demon DNA was trying to screw me—I was trying to fight against it. Sad truth is, the fighting's been doing me more harm than good."

"Okay, so they don't know what's caused the damage. But, if the demon's healing you—does that mean you're getting better?" Angel asked cautiously, trying not to let on just how scared he was at the thought of Doyle's mysterious illness being something life threatening. "Is there a chance everything will go back to normal eventually?"

Doyle laughed bitterly as he removed his hand from his face and looked up at Angel. "Being normal was never really in the cards for me, yeah?" He lamented, leaning forward in his chair with his elbows balanced on his knees. "Think about it, Angel, man. If it had been a one-time deal, an injury, the demon woulda healed it all by now. There'd be nothing to see in the scans…" Doyle tilted his head toward Angel with a pointed look. "I think you and I both know the cause, and it's not natural. It's mystical. Something that can't be stopped by anyone of this earth."

"You think it's the visions." Angel filled in the blank.

"I _know_ it's the visions." Doyle insisted. "And there's no cure for that. Best case scenario, the demon will heal me faster than the visions can tear me apart. I'm just not so keen on the recommended course o' treatment, that's all."

"What's that?" Angel wondered, expecting to hear something horrendously painful and invasive. Something archaic.

Doyle couldn't hide the indignation that crept into his voice as he lifted his eyes to the sky, and shook his head in obvious dismay, "I need to be the demon, man." The frown that Doyle wore couldn't have gotten any deeper. "Ya heard that right—the only way for me to heal enough to possibly regain control over my demon side is to actually _use_ it on a regular basis. Now tell me the Powers That Be don't have a real twisted sense of humor, yeah?"

"That, um…" Angel bit his lip, trying not to acknowledge the humorous aspect of Doyle's prognosis. He cleared his throat and braced himself against the railing. "It makes sense."

"Ah, you're real amused. I can tell." Doyle grumbled, clearly not a fan of this particular part of his diagnosis. "I guess I'd be laughing, too—if I didn't wanna cry."

"There's nothing wrong with being the demon some of the time, Doyle." Angel stated calmly, moving away from the railing and finally settling into the open chair next to his friend. "There are plenty of times when you should've been using it, and you didn't. Now you won't have an excuse not to."

"Stop trying to find the bright side." Doyle bellyached. "You're supposed to be all broody and indifferent, man. Trying to cheer me up isn't in your job description."

"You should be using it right now." Angel ignored the other man's complaints, keeping his eyes turned toward the distance at first, and then turning toward Doyle to arch a brow. "Go ahead. I can do it, too, if it makes you feel better."

"That's not funny, man." Doyle said with a permanent scowl. "I'm gonna have to ask ya to leave now."

"Okay, on the count of three. One… two…"


	55. Belonging, Pt 1

**"Belonging," Part I**

"Wanna try some of my sashimi?" Cordelia asked the man seated to her right, who eyed the raw fish on the edge of her fork with barely veiled dread.

"Ah, y'know, I don't eat that kinda stuff, darlin'." He replied, lifting one of the beef skewers off his plate. "Call me old fashioned, but I like my food cooked."

"You need to broaden your horizons, Doyle." She scolded lightly. "You don't know what you're missing."

"Salmonella, I'm guessing." He quipped.

She rolled her eyes at Doyle's dramatics and turned to the man seated at her left. "How about you, Gunn? Wanna bite?"

Gunn's facial expression made Doyle's look considerably more positive. He waved the fork away as if Cordelia had offered him a taste of battery acid. "Maybe when hell freezes over."

Cordelia shook her head with disappointment as she brought the fork to her mouth, visually enjoying the morsel of food. "Fine, more for me." She took her bite and then placed the fork back down, twisting her body around to see if she recognized any of the other patrons of the swanky restaurant. It was the kind of place celebrities might be lurking. Turning back to the table, she saw Angel frowning over at her semi-full plate.

"Are you full already?" Angel questioned from his seat on the other side of Doyle. "I mean, a nineteen dollar appetizer must be pretty filling, right? Maybe we should cancel the entrees—"

An elbow to the ribs compliments of Doyle stopped Angel midsentence and the two friends shared some kind of silent communication by way of mutual glares. "Hey, bud. Cordy's the guest of honor here. She should be able to eat—or not eat—whatever she wants." Doyle turned to his wine glass, lifting it in the air toward the sleekly dressed woman at his side. "In fact, I'm thinkin' a little toast is in order, yeah? Here's to the future Emmy winner!"

"Hear, hear!" Wesley agreed, lifting his own glass, while the others followed suit.

Cordelia smiled up at Doyle's enthusiastic attempt to distract her from Angel's stinginess, which was typical. She supposed it wasn't entirely the vampire's fault. Angel was really, _really_ old, after all. In his day, they probably didn't even have restaurants. He probably had to catch his own food and stuff.

She lifted her own glass, which was filled with water. "Um… thanks, guys. They don't give out Emmys for commercials, nationals or not." She clarified. "But, you never know where this will lead—this could be the big break I've been waiting for. Which is why I have to be bright and shiny when my car comes at five in the morning—no wine for me."

"You're gonna knock 'em dead, Princess." Doyle assured her with an affectionate wink. "And, don't worry, Angel, man. I won't let Cordy's share o' the wine go to waste."

Angel snorted at the joke at his expense, dropping his eyes down to his own plate, which remained conspicuously empty. Meanwhile, Cordelia's smile turned to a scowl almost instantaneously, as she gave Doyle a warning look.

"What? I can't even make a joke now?" Doyle wondered, although he hadn't actually seemed like he was joking. Even so, he put his own wine glass back down without taking a sip, and lifted his brows to illustrate the fact that he was respecting her wishes.

"Not if the joke isn't funny." She gritted back at him through her teeth.

"Yo, how much a gig like that pay, anyway?" Gunn interjected, taking Doyle off the hook. He had just finished taking a hearty gulp from his own wine glass, which he plopped back down on the table. "Gotta be a lot more than you make at our place in what, a year? Two years?"

"Gunn, I hardly think that's any of our business." Wesley admonished, and then turned to Cordelia with a vaguely worried look. "Although, I have been meaning to ask… should we be considering replacements now that you've returned to your, uh… true calling?"

"As if you could replace moi!" Cordelia huffed in reply. "No one knows that filing system the way I do. Not to mention how good I've gotten at patching you guys up… Don't worry, Wesley, I'm not rushing out the door or anything. Just because I'm about to make _a lot_ of money, doesn't mean I won't blow it all on shoes and still need a day job." She laughed merrily at the thought of finally getting back to her fashionista ways. Sure, Angel had supplied her with many new articles of clothing, but she was severely lacking in new shoes, purses and other accessories to pull them all together. "Also, I'm thinking of going blonde one of these days. I could never afford the upkeep before, but now that I'll have some disposable income—what do you guys think?"

"Oh, yes, blonde would look lovely, I should think." Wesley agreed, clearly relieved by the confirmation that Cordelia wouldn't be leaving the business anytime soon. "It'd go quite nice with your, um…" His voice trailed off and he looked away, leaving his thought unfinished. Out of the corner of her eye, Cordelia caught Doyle flashing a rather dark look in Wesley's direction.

"Complexion?" Cordelia filled in the blank.

"Yes, exactly." Wesley confirmed, clearing his throat apprehensively. Cordelia could swear she saw the tinge of a blush on his cheeks.

"Blonde's tight." Gunn remarked offhandedly, picking up a shrimp from his plate and popping it into his mouth. "But, I prefer brunettes."

"I like blondes." Angel added, much more subtly.

"Um, understatement much?" Cordelia shot back across the table, and then aimed her teasing smirk in her former boss' direction. "On second thought, maybe I shouldn't dye my hair blonde. Angel might suddenly decide he's in love with me and, as we know, it's all downhill from there."

"Hey… " Angel moaned, frowning back at her and turning to the men around him to come to his defense. It was clear by all of the expressions that no one would object to Cordelia's assessment of Angel's well-documented blonde obsession.

Cordelia waved away Angel's protests and turned toward Doyle, who had yet to add his two cents. He was leaning back in his chair, silently taking in the conversation. The thoughtful look on his face seemed slightly more serious than a simple question about his hair-color preference should provoke. "Doyle?" She asked. "Care to weigh in on the age old debate—blonde versus brunette. Which is it? Wait—let me guess. You have no preference, because I always look great, right?"

"You're better off as a brunette." He said simply, surprising the hell out of her. "Trust me."

 _Trust me._ The magic words that meant he knew what he was talking about. And not just knew as in he had a pretty good idea. He knew as in, he _knew_.

"Oh." She replied dumbly, feeling her stomach flip over. If Doyle was warning her about the state of her tresses, he must've seen something truly awful. "Well… I was just considering it."

An awkward beat passed that was quickly filled by Wesley, who took it as his cue to change topics in a rather clunky manner.

"I don't mean to mix business with pleasure, but I do think we should at least consider the matter of Doyle's last vision—the Haklar demon." Wesley leaned further in so no one else in the restaurant would overhear. "Does anyone have any suggestions on how we might kill it?"

"I'm thinking flame thrower." Gunn answered, continuing to pop pieces of food into his mouth and chewing loudly.

"That wouldn't be a _new_ flame thrower, would it?" Angel asked, trying to seem blasé about the question. "A used one would work just as well. Better yet, maybe we could rent one."

"You dropped all that coin on a Viking sword, and you're cheaping out on the flame thrower?" Gunn fired back across the table. "That's weak, bro."

"Cordy made me return the Viking sword." Angel grumbled with a pout.

Cordelia was trying to pay attention to the shoptalk that had commenced on the other end of the table, but she was distracted by the unexpected sensation of Doyle's fingers landing softly on her arm, attempting to get her attention. And get her attention, he did. She looked over at him as he leaned toward her, and was instantly sucked into those twinkling green eyes of his that looked preternaturally blue under the current lighting.

"Before these guys fill the rest o' the evening with talk of weapons and demons, I just wanted to tell ya again how proud I am." He whispered to her, a warm smile playing across his lips. "And I'd like to think it was all that rehearsing we did together that helped ya land the gig, yeah?"

She heard the words coming out of his mouth, but was far more distracted by the place where his fingertips were sending gentle shockwaves through her bare skin. There were some aspects of their newfound friendship that were much harder to adjust to than others. Chatting and joking around the office, easy peasy. Proximity, on the other hand. Proximity could be a complicated issue. For instance, a friend casually touching her arm was no big deal, but when that friend was Doyle, Cordelia wasn't sure if she should be flinching away from his touch, or leaning into it.

"Ya okay, Princess?" Doyle wondered, flashing her a worried look. "You're lookin' a bit pale there."

"I'm… uh..." Her eyes continued to linger on his, forcing a wavering smile to her lips.

With his hand still resting lightly on her elbow, Doyle searched her face for the answer to whatever had her looking so out of sorts. "Is this about the whole blonde thing?" He guessed, a vaguely apologetic expression crossing his face. "I wasn't saying it looked bad to _me_. It was just a feeling I got. From the other you." He paused, examining Cordelia's somewhat odd-looking expression, and then motioned toward his forehead. "But, y'know, now that I mention it… maybe ya wanna stay away from those fringe things."

The look on his face left no more questions. She wasn't sure if she should be embarrassed that he'd seen whatever terrible haircut the other version of her had suffered through, relieved that he was warning her about it, or annoyed that he found it so distasteful.

Just then, a third option presented itself.

"Oh, God." She said, bringing one hand up to cover her mouth, and the other up to her stomach that had rolled over once again, but this time much more aggressively.

"Cordy, now don't go overreacting." Doyle warned her, finally removing his hand from her arm and sitting back in his chair to adjust his napkin over his lap. "There are worse things than a bad haircut, not that I'm saying it was bad."

"Oh, no! It's the sashimi." She groaned as she felt her entire digestive track flip itself into reverse. "Watch out, I'm gonna be—"

She didn't get to finish her declaration that she would be sick, because she was interrupted by the act of being sick. All over the floor. All over her dress. All over her shoes. All over Doyle, too, she suspected, since there was that unfortunate proximity issue.

Through the haze of her violent nausea, Cordelia barely registered Angel's voice in the distance. "They'll take that off the bill, right?"

* * *

"I'm never having sashimi again." Cordelia moaned, as her head dropped over the toilet bowl once again. Not that there could possibly be anything left to come up. There was nothing left but stomach acid at this point.

Doyle smoothed her hair back from her face, and held it, as he had been doing for the better part of an hour now. That was _after_ he had held the paper bag open for her in the back of Angel's car as they drove across town, and then he had carried her upstairs to her apartment to deposit her in the bathroom, in front of her toilet bowl, where he feared she'd be spending most of the night.

Although, Cordelia gagged for what must have been the two-hundredth time since they'd entered her bathroom, nothing came up. She soon gave up her effort, and sunk backwards onto the cold tile floor with her back and head propped up against Doyle who was squatting down behind her.

"I'm dying." She stated unceremoniously. "I've faced countless demons, but in the end it was death by sushi."

Doyle tried to keep his chuckling at bay. To look at her, it was no doubt that she _felt_ like she was dying. But, he was pretty sure she'd be able to defeat the evil food poisoning monster that had invaded her digestive track. "Ya may not believe it right now, love, but you'll be alright once ya purge it all out."

"I have nothing left to purge." She mumbled back at him.

"No, I can't imagine y'do." Doyle admitted. "Maybe it's time I moved ya to the bed, yeah?"

She was tilting into his embrace, with her head listlessly leaning back against his chest. It almost would have seemed affectionate, if she wasn't so horribly ill. Far too ill to object to his help, whether she wanted it or not. And, selfishly, he was glad to be the one there to assist her. Not that he'd seen Angel, Wesley or Gunn exactly jumping at the chance to take his place.

"I can't move." She groaned, keeping her eyes closed and her head tilted back, so he could gaze down at her face from above. "I'm just gonna sleep right here…"

"Hate to disappoint ya, Princess, but my knees'll be giving out at some point. I'm gonna have to move ya one way or the other—I'm thinking the bed's the best option." She made a small noise of protest as he shifted his weight, trying to get a good grip on her without giving her the Heimlich maneuver, which wouldn't be recommended under the circumstances.

He was able to stand himself up first and then hoist her up from under her arms. Had she been entirely dead weight, he probably wouldn't have been able to lift her in such a manner, but once she was halfway up, she got her feet underneath herself and partially bore her own weight. She leaned heavily against him, however, her brow crinkling with disgust as she caught a whiff of his shirt.

"You got barf on your shirt." She observed, as he slipped an arm around her and began walking her from the bathroom to the bedroom across the hall. Tilting her head down to the floor she continued. "And your shoes."

"Actually, _you_ did that, darlin'. And if I didn't know better I'd say you were aiming right for it, yeah?" Doyle joked as they hobbled along.

"Sorry." She groaned back, keeping one arm securely around Doyle's neck and the other wrapped protectively around her abdomen, which was undoubtedly sore from all the muscle strain.

"I'd been meaning to toss this old thing anyway." He fibbed, as they made it to her bedroom, where he wasn't entirely sure how to proceed without being a little too familiar. She needed to get out of her dress, but he was pretty sure that wasn't a task he should be helping her with. Easing her onto the side of the bed, he headed toward her dresser to retrieve something clean for her to change in to. However, by the time he'd crossed back to the bed, she'd already face-planted into the pillow.

"Ah… Cordy. Your dress is, ah…" He stopped talking, figuring it was a lost cause. She'd just have to launder the comforter along with everything else. At least that settled the issue of whether or not he was supposed to help her get undressed. He placed the clean pajamas beside her, in case she should have the wherewithal to change into them at any point. He then crossed the room once again to grab a fleecy throw blanket to toss over her. "Ya need me to call someone? To cancel the commercial?"

He hadn't been entirely sure she was still awake, until she lifted her head a fraction of an inch to mumble back at him adamantly. "No way am I missing the shoot!" Her head dropped back down into the pillow with a heavy thump.

Doyle stood there, staring down at her with a mixture of concern and amazement—she could've been on her _actual_ deathbed and she'd probably still want to make it to her shoot the next morning. "Alright then. I'm just gonna go grab ya a bucket, in case you're not done puking up raw fish."

He did exactly that, and then tiptoed out of her bedroom for the second time, closing the door quietly behind him. As he turned around, he saw Clover on the ground, batting at the hem of his pants with her tiny paws. "Hey, girl," he greeted her tenderly, leaning down to rub her little head. He then stood back up and began slowly unbuttoning his soiled shirt, thankful that the plain white tee beneath it was still wearable.

Heading toward the kitchen, he tossed his putrid shirt in the garbage can, focusing his energy on wiping his one and only pair of dress shoes down with a damp cloth. He then retrieved Cordelia's strappy heels from their discarded location on the bathroom floor and attempted to do the same with them, but he suspected they were really and truly ruined. He abandoned his efforts quickly enough, leaving the shoes in the sink, for lack of a better location. They'd probably join his shirt in the trash come morning.

Doyle stared at the closed door to Cordelia's bedroom, debating whether or not to check on her one more time before he left the apartment. He hovered there indecisively, listening for any sounds of distress from within. Hearing nothing, he opted not to disturb her, praying she was sound asleep by now. As he crossed the room to grab his jacket from the closet doorknob, it was snatched away before he could reach it.

"Hey, Dennis, what ya doing, man?" Doyle asked the unseen phantom, who was carrying his leather jacket across the room. "Ya don't need a jacket in here, bud. It's nice and cozy. Plus, you're dead."

In reply, Dennis placed the floating jacket down on a chest in the corner of the room, folding it neatly. Doyle shook his head with mild frustration as he started to cross the room once again to retrieve his jacket, but before he got there, Dennis tossed a couch pillow at him, causing Doyle to stop and catch it.

Doyle stared down at the pillow in his arms and started to understand what Dennis was insinuating. "Y'think I should stay? Is that it?"

This time Dennis' answer was to open the door to Cordelia's linen closet and retrieve another fuzzy blanket, not unlike the one Doyle had previously covered the lady of the house with. The blanket swiftly floated across the room and spread itself out across the couch, making it clear that Dennis intended for Doyle to sleep there.

"Yeah, I'm thinking you're probably right." Doyle agreed, glad to have his own instincts validated by Cordelia's ghostly roommate. "Just in case she needs me."

Crossing the room, Doyle kicked off his shoes, settled himself down on the couch cushions, and pulled the blanket over his body. Seconds later, a small feline leaped up on the couch beside him, scampered across his resting body and nestled herself snuggly into his side.

"I guess ya really did miss me." He noted with a lazy chuckle, as he closed his eyes and settled in for a few hours of shut-eye, hoping that Cordelia was able to do the same.


	56. Belonging, Pt 2

**"Belonging," Part II**

Thump!

"Ow! Can I get a little light over here?"

Doyle was startled out of slumber by the sound of someone not-so-gracefully bumping into things in the pitch-black room around him. Although, he knew right away that he wasn't in his own bed at the Hyperion, it took him several groggy seconds to remember where he actually was.

The added weight purring against his side was Clover. The clumsy individual tripping over her own furniture was Cordelia. The invisible entity flipping on the lights was Dennis.

"Ahhhhhhh!" Cordelia shrieked, as she was presented with the unexpected view of Doyle lounging across her couch. She placed her hands on her chest dramatically. "Oh, God. Doyle! I didn't know you were still here."

He was leaning up on his elbow, without sitting up all the way so as not to disturb Clover, who was still sleeping contentedly on top of him. "Sorry, love. I didn't mean to frighten ya—I was just worried. Thought ya might need me to stick around… How ya feeling?"

"Awful, mostly." She answered, catching her breath and walking further into the room, so he could get a better look at her. She still wore her filthy dress from the night before and looked as awful as she probably felt. Not that he'd tell her so. "But, I mean, I don't _think_ I'll be puking on the director, so that's something."

"What time is it?" He asked, lifting his wrist to look at the watch that should have been there—it was easy to forget it wasn't. He looked back up at her questioningly, wondering if she'd noticed that he'd sought the time on his bare wrist.

If she did notice, she certainly didn't let on even as she proceeded to answer his question. "Just after four thirty." She said. "I have to get in the shower; the car will be here soon… You should go back to sleep. Make yourself at home." She replied, padding away toward the bathroom door. Once there, she paused and looked back at him with something he identified as a half-smile rather than a grimace. "Thanks. For everything."

"Don't mention it, Princess." He replied, settling back down into the couch pillows to close his eyes once again. "You just break a leg today, yeah?"

"How about I don't break anything today." Her voice carried back over to him, as he started to slip back into unconsciousness. "What I need is a little bit of good luck, for once. Is that too much to ask?"

* * *

Cordelia sat slumped in her chair, feeling as if her entire body was made of lead. She hugged the fluffy white terry cloth robe around her trying to stay warm—did they have to keep this place so chilly? Or, was she merely this cold because there was absolutely nothing left in her body to keep her warm? She looked over at the fake beach spread out in front of her and debated basking in the fake sunlight streaming down from overhead. It had to be warmer than this. Although, then she may be forced to talk to the vapid blonde who would be co-starring in the commercial with her.

Still… _warmth_. She could handle a little mind-numbing small talk to get some of that.

She slowly eased out of her chair and was about to walk toward the mound of sand with its fake plastic palm trees and even faker ocean backdrop—that's when she became distracted by a recognizable character ambling through the crowd, a cup of coffee in hand. His eyes darted to and fro before landing on the bikini-clad blonde standing on the fake beach.

"Doyle!" Cordelia shouted his name, snapping his attention back in the direction he was walking, which was roughly toward her. She watched as his face lit up as he spotted her and he gave an excited little wave. Then, he very nearly walked into a crewmember carrying a ladder, only just managing to stop short before performing an elaborate pratfall.

Cordelia stomped toward him. "What are you doing here?!"

"I brought some coffee for the leading lady." He said cheerfully, presenting her with the cup in his hand. "Figured ya could use a little pick-me-up after the night ya had—wow, this place is incredible. Y'know, I passed a UFO on the way over."

Taking the coffee cup from his hand, she softened slightly. He'd brought her coffee from her favorite place, and she could definitely use both the caffeine and the warmth that the coffee would provide. Plus, his concern warmed her in other ways. "Thanks. This is very nice of you." She said with a pleasant smile, which she quickly dialed up to ten as she caught a glimpse of the director entering the building. She placed a hand on Doyle's shoulder and forced him to turn back the way he came. "Maybe you'll see another UFO on the way out. Can't wait to hear all about it later. Bye!"

"Hey, wait a sec, darlin'. I have a question for ya while I'm here." Doyle objected, managing to gently shake her off and turn himself back around. As he spoke to her, he shot a curious peek over at the set where the scantily clad blonde was preening. "I also need to know where you put the Gilbert file. As ya probably know, it's nowhere near the G's."

"They lived in the _valley_." She said impatiently, and was greeted only by a vacant stare. "V, Doyle. Check under V." She insisted, once again gripping his shoulder and attempting to shoo him away. "Now you really need to—keep your mouth shut, the director's here." Her eyes went wide as a terminally-bored-looking man approached with a lackey at his heels. She plastered on an overly bright smile and stepped in front of Doyle, hoping he would remain mutely behind her, as she'd instructed.

"Hi." She addressed the director enthusiastically. "I'm Cordelia Chase, and I just want to say thank you so much for casting me."

"You're welcome. Lose the robe." The guy demanded, without missing a beat.

"Excuse me?" Cordelia replied, feeling a little dumbstruck by his abrupt manner.

"What's wrong, you don't speak English?" The director asked condescendingly. "The wardrobe, I need to see it. Now lose the robe, Princess." He snapped his fingers toward the assistant at his side, who reached over to take the coffee cup from Cordelia's hand.

She heard Doyle make a little sound behind her that sounded suspiciously like a sputter. She promptly elbowed him in the gut before he could turn the sound into anything resembling a sentence. "Oomph."

"No problem!" She answered brightly, slipping the fluffy white robe from off her body in order to reveal the skimpy bikini underneath. From behind her, she heard yet another sound from Doyle, but this one didn't sound like it was in danger of becoming an actual sentence. Rather, it sounded more like he had been rendered speechless. She could feel his eyes rake over her from behind, just as the director's were doing from the front. However, one set felt decidedly different than the other.

"Now there are the reasons I hired you. One and two." The director said, raising his eyebrows about halfway, flashing an expression that looked vaguely positive. "You've got a killer rack. Looks real and everything. But… what's going on down there?" He asked, pointing to the edge of her bikini, where just the hint of her recent trauma was visible. "Is that a… stab wound?"

"Bullet wound, actually. Kind of a—" Cordelia started to explain—but the director held up a hand to silence her as he turned to his assistant. "Tell David that he needs to get rid of that _thing_ , whatever it is. I don't want to see it." He turned back to Cordelia, twirling his finger in the air. "Now the back."

Taking a deep breath, Cordelia slowly turned around so she was facing Doyle. She could see the barely contained fury etched into his face and radiating down into his fists, which were in balls at his side. He looked about ready to blow his top, which is why Cordelia purposely caught his eye and silently begged him to keep a lid on it. She knew he saw her, she knew he understood, but the look she got in return clearly questioned her sanity.

"Well, at least there's nothing wrong there." The prick director commented as he took in a view from the rear, and Cordelia got to see the vein on Doyle's forehead throb involuntarily at the sound of the guy's rather crass assessment of her ass. "Okay, turn again."

Doyle's mouth opened and he lifted one of his index fingers into the air, but she halted him with the whites of her eyes. "Not one word." She mouthed to him, her pleading stare was now laced with warning as she reluctantly followed the director's instructions, turning once again.

"When does she go to makeup?" The director asked his assistant, who began flipping through the notebook in his hand, looking slightly befuddled.

"I've already been to makeup." Cordelia spoke up uncertainly, feeling goose pimples break out across her bare flesh.

She had thought getting this job was supposed to make her feel like Cordelia Chase again—no longer adored by one, but adored by many. Instead, she'd never felt less like herself than she did at that moment. It was practically an out of body experience, except she found herself mercilessly trapped inside her body, which was exposed to the derisive eyes attached to the director's head. She was dying to put her robe back on and hide herself from this man who was making her feel like an object—a tarnished object for that matter.

The fact that Doyle was standing there, witnessing every moment of her degradation only made it that much worse.

"Really?" The director scoffed in disbelief, giving her an openly revolted look. "That's frightening." He kept his disapproving eyes on Cordelia as he barked instructions to his assistant. "Take her back. _This_ will never do. Unless David can work some kind of miracle here, I'm gonna be forced to stick her in the background with her ass to the camera. Tell him he _needs_ to get rid of those bags under her eyes and that thing on her stomach. This is a commercial for suntan lotion, not an abused women's shelter, for Christ's sake!"

Cordelia swallowed hard as she felt Doyle shift impatiently behind her. She attempted to defend herself, but the voice that came out of her throat didn't sound like hers at all. It sounded… small. "I had food poisoning."

"Food poisoning, good one. Listen, I don't care _how_ great your tits are, if I can't film the rest of you, you're useless to me." The director chided her, then turned to his assistant once again. "Tell David I'm supposed to wanna sleep with this woman. I don't. Do you wanna sleep with her? Of course, you don't."

"Alright, buddy, I've had more than enough!" Doyle was apoplectic as he side-stepped around Cordelia to get into the director's face. "You're way outta line here—and unless ya wanna few less teeth in your mouth, I suggest ya start apologizing to the lady!"

"Uh huh…" The director replied disinterestedly, and then turned to his assistant. "Get security."

For a split second, Cordelia hesitated. She watched Doyle lurch forward, grabbing the guy roughly by his shirt collar and for a fleeting moment, she wanted him to knock the guy's teeth out.

But, only for a moment. Then reality set in. The reality was she wanted to keep this job.

She reached out to grip Doyle by the elbow and attempted to pull him off the other man, surprised to find that he was stronger than she remembered. He wouldn't budge. Perhaps, it was the unadulterated rage coursing through his veins. "Doyle, no!" She shouted. "Let him go!"

"Are ya kidding me, Cordy?!" Doyle howled, cocking his head in her direction, but not loosening his grip on the director. "Did ya hear what this asshole said to ya? _You_ may be willing to let him get away with it, but I sure as hell ain't!" Doyle turned back toward the guy, growling right in his face. "For the record, bud, this woman right here is a thousand times the person you are—she wouldn't be giving ya the time o' day if ya weren't directing this commercial. That's a fact!"

The director looked only mildly concerned by his current predicament. Judging by his winning personality, Cordelia suspected it wasn't the first time he'd been threatened with violence. And it was a safe bet it wouldn't be the last. "Is that a fact?" The guy smarmed, even as Doyle appeared to tighten his grip. "It's also a fact that I _am_ directing this commercial. All I have to do is snap my fingers and your girlfriend over there will do whatever I tell her to do. Because _that's_ _how_ _this_ _works_."

Cordelia felt a chill go down her spine as she interpreted the double-meaning in the director's words. Letting go of Doyle's arm, she promptly slid back into her furry robe, securing it tightly around her waist. "Doyle, let it go." She said, but her voice sounded far less convincing this time, even to her own ears.

"By the way, _Princess_ , bringing your unhinged, loser-boyfriend to my set? Not a good career move." The director said with a patronizing laugh.

"Stop calling her that." Doyle seethed through gritted teeth, his face only inches from the other man's. "Now, I'm gonna ask ya one more time. Are ya gonna apologize?"

"No, I'm not." The director snapped back fearlessly, perhaps seeing the incoming squad of security personnel who were now racing in their direction. "But, hey, if my makeup guy _can_ work a miracle and I like what I see, maybe I'll do her a favor and let _her_ apologize to _me_."

Anticipating that Doyle would probably try and punch the guy, Cordelia had reached out once again to grasp the sleeve covering his right arm. What she hadn't anticipated was that Doyle really preferred to head-butt. Which he did. _Hard_.

The director went reeling backwards, howling in pain as he lifted his hands to his injured nose, which immediately started to bleed profusely. That's when Cordelia gave up; realizing her efforts were futile, she let go of Doyle's arm, freeing him to follow up the head-butt with a swift right cross, which sent the director sprawling backwards on his ass. Doyle stood over him shaking out his fist.

By that time, the security team had arrived and it was Doyle who went sprawling flat on the ground, having been tackled there by a rather sizable gentleman in a bright yellow shirt. The additional guards assisted in restraining him, but it was unnecessary. Doyle put up no fight, holding out his hands in surrender. Even so, Cordelia winced as she watched them forcefully push Doyle's chin into the hard warehouse floor. "Ay… no need for the violence, guys. I'm willing to go peaceful-like."

The director's assistant was helping his boss off the floor, assisting him with a rag to his hemorrhaging nose. "Get him out of here!" The director barked at the security team, before turning on his heel and walking rapidly away from the set in the general direction of the first-aid station.

The guards pulled Doyle off the floor roughly, and immediately began corralling him toward the exit. "Ya might wanna stick around—I'm thinking someone else'll wanna slug that guy before the day's out." He argued, as he tried to get a parting glance at Cordelia over his shoulder, but the guards kept aggressively propelling him forward and Cordelia made no attempt to follow. "Yeah, alright, alright. I'm going." She heard his voice carry back to the place where she stood. Alone.

A deep, dark frown had settled onto her face, and she suspected that this day wasn't going to get any better. Thanks to Doyle's little outburst, she'd be lucky if she wasn't fired. And even if she wasn't, she had a sinking feeling that she wouldn't like what would be asked of her in order to keep the job.

Slinking over to the mound of sand piled beneath the bright fake sunshine, she plopped herself down on the beach towel that was laid out there and waited for the inevitable.

* * *

"So, let me get this straight. You went in there to ask Cordy about the missing Gilbert file… and ended up beating up the director?" Gunn turned toward Doyle with a look of utter disbelief.

The four male members of Angel Investigations were traversing down the dark tunnel on their way to seek and destroy the Haklar demon from Doyle's last vision. Each of them had a weapon of some sort slung over his shoulder, or in Doyle's case, dragged along listlessly at his side.

"The guy had it coming!" He insisted, as he continued relaying the events of his morning. "Pushing her around, insulting her—worst of all, he had 'er in this teeny bit of thing passing for a bathing suit. I'm telling ya, it covered—well, it covered _nothing_ is what it covered!"

Doyle was walking side-by-side with Angel, behind Wesley and Gunn, which meant he could see the looks exchanged between the other men. "Oh, yes. Sounds, _ahem_ … awful." Wesley remarked, although the barely focused eyes in his head implied otherwise.

"Hey, I saw that!" Doyle aimed an accusing finger at Wesley. "Bad enough that dirtbag had to be looking at every inch of 'er, I don't need you imagining it as well." He redirected the finger toward Gunn. "Seriously, bud, wipe that thought outta your head this instant, yeah?"

"Won't it, um… be on TV?" Angel asked cautiously, trying to maintain an innocent demeanor as he posed the rhetorical question, hoping that Doyle wouldn't turn on him, too.

"Best not to remind me o' that bit." Doyle concluded, lifting a hand to rub his head in defeat. "Y'know what bugs me most? I thought she'd punch the guy herself, or at least tell him where he could stick it. But, no… she just stood there and _took_ it. That's not _my_ Cordy, I'll tell ya that much."

"That's right." Gunn replied smartly, tossing a brief glance over his shoulder at Doyle. "She ain't _your_ Cordy. So why is it you sound like a jealous boyfriend, D?"

Doyle shook his head adamantly in reply. "Nah, it's not like that, man. Any of ya woulda done the same in my position."

"And, what _is_ your position, exactly?" Wesley wondered, also sneaking a peek over his shoulder. "I'm afraid that's the part that isn't quite clear."

"I'm her _friend_." Doyle retorted. "Same as you."

Gunn snorted in reply, which caused Doyle to cock his head at the taller man walking in front of him. He aimed his question at the back of Gunn's hairless head. "What?"

"Well, I know _I'm_ friends with Cordy, and Wes here, he's definitely friends with Cordy. Angel, too, most of the time." Gunn explained. "And _friends_ on all of us looks a lot different than it does on you."

Doyle merely sputtered wordlessly at the implication, turning to Angel and cocking his chin in Gunn's direction as if to say _can you believe this guy_?

"I think what Gunn means is that you and Cordelia have a specific sort of, um… well, chemistry, really would be the word I'd use." Wesley looked up at the ceiling of the tunnel, as he sought the proper descriptor. "While our affections for Cordelia fall more firmly in the sisterly realm."

"Ya like picturing your sister in skimpy swimsuits, do ya?" Doyle snorted in reply.

"I said sister _ly_." Wesley corrected, pushing his glasses higher on his nose, visibly flustered. "Not that I was picturing anything unseemly. _"_

"English, I got this." Gunn piped back in, taking Wesley off the hook. "Ain't none of us are blind, D. Cordelia's a hottie. But, we ain't hot _for_ her, and vice versa. I'd die for that girl, but I ain't looking to date her. You feel me?"

"Ya can stop right there, pal. Cordy and I, whatever the temperature—there's no chance we're getting back together, if that's what you're insinuating." Doyle said flatly, right before turning to Angel to once again complain about the two men walking in front of him. "Do ya hear this crazy-talk, man?"

Angel gave a noncommittal shrug, which caused Doyle to wrinkle his forehead in further bewilderment. "I dunno. I've seen the way you guys, y'know… operate. And, in my experience, it does sort of seem like you might be heading down a familiar path. You start off as friends, then you start fighting a lot, and getting sort of _possessive_ of each other. Next thing you know I find you making out on my desk…"

"It'll be Wesley's desk this time." Gunn muttered, earning a glare from both Angel and Wesley for entirely different reasons.

"It was Cordelia's desk." Doyle corrected, now directing his objections purely at Angel, rather than the other two. "What is it—gang-up-on-Doyle-day and someone forgot to tell me?" He scoffed. "Just 'cause we're ex, who're trying to be friends, doesn't mean we're getting back together. I mean, Harry and I—we're friends, and ya don't seem to think we'll be making out on any desks anytime soon."

Gunn nearly dropped the axe he was carrying as he stumbled. "Yo, did I just hear that right?" He muttered to Wesley. "Doyle used to date dudes?"

"I guess, I just don't understand why you'd be objecting to the possibility of getting back together with Cordelia." Angel replied to Doyle with another shrug of his shoulders. "Now that, _you_ _know_. There's nothing stopping you from being with her."

"What was stopping you before?" Wesley inquired, ignoring Gunn's question and slowing down to a halt as they came to a fork in the tunnel.

"I really feel like I missed something here." Gunn commented, shaking his head in puzzlement.

Doyle blew out a long breath and dropped his head forward in utter defeat. "Ya want me to admit that I still love the girl? Fine—stop the presses. I love her! But, the thing that's stopping me from getting her back is _her_. Can any one of ya look me in the eye and tell me ya honestly think she'd _take_ me back after what happened? Huh?" He looked around at all the rapidly averted eyes. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Silence fell over the four men as they all seemed at a loss for what to say next. Finally, it was Wesley who lifted his chin, squared his shoulders and adjusted his glasses. "Doyle, it bears pointing out…" He cleared his throat once more for good measure. "None of us can say what Cordelia would do, since she hasn't been consulted in the matter."

"Listen, bud, I know the girl. Ya break her heart, ya don't get a second crack at it." Doyle replied, not without regret.

"You had reasons." Angel spoke up from beside Doyle with his eyes still trained on the floor. After a beat, he lifted them to give Doyle a meaningful look. "You could tell her. I mean… you should tell her. About the reasons."

"Did it have something to do with dating dudes?" Gunn wondered, still looking utterly lost.

"Perhaps, you don't know her as well as you once did." Wesley remarked, making no attempt to clear up Gunn's confusion. "People change, especially when they've been through as much as she has."

Doyle snorted in reply, disliking the insinuation that he wasn't still the preeminent authority on all things Cordelia Chase. Even if it was probably true. Even if everything she'd been through _had_ changed her more than he even realized. The fact that she had reached out and offered friendship was proof enough of that. The fact that she let that director walk all over her even more so.

"You did break her heart." Wesley continued matter-of-factly. "But, you seem to believe it was a mistake. And, rather than trying to correct it, you continue to make it on a daily basis. Tell me, do you enjoy the slow, constant torture of standing beside the woman you love, believing she is permanently out of reach?"

"No." Doyle reluctantly grumbled in reply. He hated that Wesley was right, and Angel, too, for that matter. There was really no reason for Doyle not to clear the air with Cordelia. Really and truly. She should know why he'd rejected her, even if it changed nothing—even if it changed everything. Even if it made things worse. He owed her the truth, if nothing else. As her friend. As more than her friend. As whatever they would be thereafter.

A low roar from deep inside the tunnel, caused them all to turn warily toward the right fork in the tunnel, from which the sound emanated.

"Not to cut this riveting conversation short, but I'm afraid duty calls." Wesley observed, swallowing heavily as he undoubtedly pictured the gruesome Haklar demon in his mind. Not that he could ever picture it quite the way that Doyle was able to, having actually _seen_ the thing in his mind. And not looking forward to seeing it anywhere else.

"After all this chick-talk I know I'm ready to kill something." Gunn declared, hiking his axe back up and over his shoulder and starting to lead the way toward the sound of the growling beast deep inside the tunnel. As he walked, he tossed one final glance back over his shoulder at Doyle. "But, seriously, man. You still swing both ways or was that just, like, an experimental phase?"


	57. Belonging, Pt 3

**"Belonging," Part III**

Doyle glanced worriedly over at Wesley, who was still holding a handkerchief to his bloody forehead. He held open the front door of the Hyperion lobby, and nodded for the other man to go in ahead of him. "Really got ya good, there, huh?"

"I don't think there's a concussion." Wesley answered, pausing in the doorway to lower the cloth from his head. "Did it stop?"

"Yeah. Looks like." Doyle confirmed. Wesley sighed with relief and continued through the doorway. Gunn and Angel trekked in behind him.

"Power walkers suck." Gunn noted, referring to the middle aged, track-suit-wearing woman who had cracked Wesley over the head with a mini-barbell as retribution for the slain Haklar. "Ain't anyone tell 'em demons is evil?! Present company excluded..."

Doyle followed the others into the lobby, noting that Gunn's voice had trailed off unusually at the end of his last sentence, as if he'd become distracted.

"Oh, dear." Wesley mumbled worriedly, as his eyes darted from whatever he saw in the center of the lobby back toward Doyle, implying that the concern was Doyle's, specifically.

Pausing in confusion, Doyle saw both Gunn and Angel do much the same as Wesley, first focusing their eyes toward the center of the room with grave concern, and then turning to Doyle expectantly. They had all frozen in place, waiting for him to take care of whatever the problem was.

As Doyle stepped around Gunn's broad back for a better view, he saw why.

Cordelia was seated on the circular couch, hunched over with her hair covering her face. She could have been sick, she could have been crying—it was hard to say, but either way, she didn't look particularly well. Therefore, he too quickly adopted the look of concern that he'd seen on the others' faces, as he instinctively weaved his way through the others and proceeded toward her. "Cordelia?" She didn't look up right away, and Doyle tossed a panicked glance over his shoulder at the other three men. They had hung back and were now moving away toward the reception area to let Doyle approach her alone, which he did after taking a giant, nervous gulp of air. "Cordy, are ya okay?"

She finally lifted her head, revealing the downward turn of her mouth and slightly bloodshot eyes. Crying, then. Doyle's stomach flipped over, imagining any number of awful things that could have her looking so sullen. Along with the worry that had quickly risen inside him, Doyle felt a resurgence of the fury from earlier—he had no doubt her grim mood had been caused by that weasel of a director. And for a moment, he was more than a little terrified to find out what may have happened after he'd been escorted off the set by security.

"No, Doyle, I am _not_ okay." She replied tartly, and he faltered for a moment, coming to a stop a few feet in front of her as she rose from the couch and what he had originally interpreted as sorrow, quickly transformed into wrath. "Do you even know what you did today?"

Swallowing once again, Doyle cautiously attempted to respond to what he suspected was probably a rhetorical question. "I'm real sorry if I embarrassed ya." He anxiously shifted his weight to his other foot.

"You got me fired, Doyle!" She snapped in reply, causing any subsequent defense to die on his lips, and he felt his jaw drop open involuntarily. "Yeah, that's right. Your extreme display of macho maleness caused the director to fire me! Without even offering me a chance to keep my job!"

He had closed his mouth, knowing that a second apology wasn't bound to cut it, but as he heard her lament the fact that she hadn't been pressured into performing sex acts to advance her career, he found his vocal chords sputtering back to life. "Are ya saying ya woulda slept with that guy for a lousy commercial?!"

Cordelia glared at him and then rolled her eyes so hard that he thought they'd get stuck in the top of her head. "First of all, it was a national. And second of all—no, of course not!" She spat back. "I would rather spend a night with the Prince of Darkness himself than have gone back to that lowlife's trailer! But, the fact that he didn't even make the offer is what I find insulting!"

Once again, Doyle closed his mouth firmly, blinking rapidly at the logic, or lack thereof, in Cordelia's words. Meanwhile, she was pacing in front of him with her arms crossed tightly across her chest. He prepared himself for the next verbal pummeling and was surprised to see her stop and throw her arms up in frustration instead, the anger rapidly receding and being replaced by something much closer to mortification. "Oh, who am I kidding? You didn't do anything I shouldn't have done myself." She finally admitted, blowing out a long stream of breath, slouching her shoulders and raising her hand to her forehead. "God, I really embarrassed myself today, didn't I? Letting that jerk talk to me like I was a piece of scantily clad meat. I mean, all I wanted was a little validation, y'know? And the paycheck."

Doyle, too, finally exhaled the breath he'd been holding as he'd waited for what he thought would be a cannonball fired in his direction. He observed her slumped posture with slight bewilderment. "Validation? Why'd ya feel like ya needed anything of the sort, darlin'? You're the most confident person I've ever met… and not without good reason."

She didn't react to his subtle compliment, the strain on her features not ebbing in the slightest. He was surprised to see how flushed she'd become—so foreign was the look of shame on her face. "I don't know. I guess… I just wanted to feel like _me_ again. The glamorous me who didn't have a constant luggage rack on her face and demon guts on her clothes." She dropped her hand to her side, continuing to look like she'd rather disappear through the floor than remain standing in front of him. "It was so humiliating—I really wish you hadn't been there to see that."

He cautiously moved closer to her, reaching out but never actually touching her. His eyes were full of the warmth and sincerity he knew she needed to see. "Hey, there's nothing to be embarrassed about, Princess. Ya looked radiant on that stage today." He hesitated for only an instant before deciding she needed to hear more of the truth, even if it straddled the line of appropriate ex-relations. "I couldn't have taken my eyes off ya if I wanted to." His voice had dropped into a lower register as he made that admission, and her hazel eyes had locked on to his as he uttered it. "That cretin shoulda been treating ya like royalty, yeah? The fact that he didn't is a sign of _his_ shortcomings, not yours."

He was smiling down at her, giving her a flash of the dimple and the twinkle of his eye that let her know, he was being both completely sincere and a little bit cheeky. "And I do mean shortcomings in the literal sense—see, I'm guessing the guy's trying to distract from a little anatomical problem below the belt. No other reason I can see for him failing to make an indecent proposal to a goddess such as yourself." He winked at her then, and could see that his words had the desired effect. The pout she had been wearing when he had started talking, had fully transformed into a grateful smile. It had been a long, long time since she'd looked at him quite that way, and he would be lying if he said it didn't turn his insides into mush.

"Thank you." She said, clearly touched by his flattery. "I should've known better than to expect some wanna-be-Hollywood-hotshot to make me feel good about myself… you're so much better at it."

Doyle grinned back at her, tilting his head down to the marble floor beneath his feet. "Ah, well, I've had more practice. So it worked, then?" He asked, before bringing his eyes back up to meet hers. "Ya feel better?"

"Yeah." Cordelia replied, still wearing her ever-growing smile. "I do."

There they were, gazing at each other with mutual smiles. For the first time in a long time, Doyle could honestly say he felt completely at ease in her presence. He wasn't analyzing how close he should get or what words he was allowed to say. He was just being himself, and she was just being Cordelia. Just like they used to be, before everything went so horribly wrong.

It was the kind of moment that made him feel like Wesley, Gunn and Angel were probably right about the nature of the friendship between he and Cordelia—it would never be strictly that. Not with the candle still burning so hard on his end. And when she looked at him the way she was looking at him now, her eyes soft and warm, he started to think he'd been a fool to give up on begging for another chance before he'd even tried.

That was probably very much the case. Doyle was _definitely_ a fool.

He swore he knew the girl better than anyone, and maybe that was true. Now, however, he needed to fully acknowledge the woman she'd become. A woman, who was not only capable of great resilience and determination, but also of great compassion and care. A woman capable of forgiveness… he just had to give her a good reason.

The truth was the key. She needed to know the real reason he'd pushed her away. Even if all that remained was friendship; even if it ruined the fragile friendship they had found—he couldn't let his personal demon baggage stand between them any longer.

"Cordy… y'think maybe we can—?"

Whoosh!

The front doors to the lobby flew open so rapidly that Doyle's sentence halted abruptly, remaining unfinished, as both he and Cordelia's heads whipped toward the tall, loudly-dressed demon who paraded into the place frantically. "Hey, ho. Looks like the gang's all here, which is a good thing, because I'm in need of a gang—a ragtag group of warriors, like yourselves, who are good at killing things." He approached the reception counter, where the other members of the Angel investigations team had gathered, as Doyle and Cordelia shared a puzzled look and began crossing in that direction as well. "I'll pay, of course. Wouldn't expect you to slay a Drokken for free."

"You want us to slay a dragon?" Gunn asked. "Good thing that's our specialty."

"Drokken." The Host corrected, waving to Wesley who was rubbing his chin curiously, probably trying to recall if he'd ever heard the term before. "Less fire-breathey, more toothy. With a rather voracious appetite. Definitely not something you want gallivanting around Los Angeles—it'll treat the entire city like a smorgasbord."

"I've never heard of it." Wesley noted, looking past the Host at Doyle who had sidled up with Cordelia at his heels, and then turning back to the host. "Did this come from _them_?" He looked upward to indicate the "them" in question.

"Oh, no. This came from a portal." The Host said leaning an arm against the reception counter and sighing in dramatic fashion. "Right there in the middle of my club—totally ruined my killer Stevie Wonder routine. Which is why I need you to kill it. Preferably now-ish. Or as close to now as possible."

"You had me when I thought it was a dragon." Gunn remarked, hitching his homemade axe over his shoulder and circling back around the counter on his way toward the front door. "But, I got somewhere I needa be."

"Gunn." Wesley called after the other man with obvious disappointment. "If this Drokken is as vicious as the Host says, we're going to need you."

"Yeah, well, when you find it, beep me." Gunn replied, continuing toward the front door. "My old crew's waiting on me to go clean out McKenzie Park. Can't leave 'em hanging. Not this time."

"Yes, alright." Wesley conceded reluctantly. "When we find this Drokken, we'll _beep_ you."

Gunn was already out the door, even before Wesley had finished giving him the go-ahead, which left the lanky Brit with a distinct frown on his face. Meanwhile, Cordelia stepped around Doyle on her way over to her desk. "I guess I'll just go ahead and get your file started—how do you spell Dorken?"

"It's a Drokken—you know what never mind the spelling. Maybe you could get with the _searching_ first? Followed very closely by that killing thing I mentioned?" The Host pleaded, looking at Angel. "I think you know where you can send the bill."

"Okay." Angel agreed. "We can start at Caritas, do a circular search, say one mile in diameter, keep moving out and hope we get lucky..." Pausing for a moment, and noticing Doyle's rather skeptical glance in his direction, Angel got the message and turned toward Wesley with a shrug. "If you think that would work… boss."

"Um, yes. Alright." Wesley replied easily, still seemingly distracted by the door Gunn had so recently exited. "Barring any more promising leads, I do believe Angel's strategy is best. Let's get moving, shall we?"

"Weapons." Angel said, once again looking toward Wesley for affirmation. "We should probably bring some. Just in case we find it."

"I like it. Searching, with weapons. Brilliant plan." The Host said enthusiastically, rubbing his hands together. He turned toward Doyle, who had been standing quietly beside him for the duration of the conversation. "Why so quiet, full-pint? Hey, by the way, good to see you fully conscious these days." Doyle abruptly bent over at the waist, placing his hands on his knees as if he was hyperventilating. "Or, mostly conscious… Oh, uh, guys—I think we've got something incoming over here!"

The lines in Doyle's forehead multiplied and deepened as a small groan emanated from his lips. Luckily Cordelia hadn't moved too far from the reception counter. Her head had shot up a split second before the Host's announcement, so she was already racing around the counter to brace Doyle before he could go tipping forward. Seconds later, Angel was there as well, just in the knick of time to catch Doyle as his body rocked violently. The vampire caught him easily, and aided him gently into a sitting position on the floor, to wait out the remainder of the vision. Cordelia, too, slunk down to the floor, keeping one hand firmly on Doyle's shoulder and the other behind his head, to assure he didn't knock it against the front of the counter. From above, the Host observed the writhing Irishman on the floor, now joined by Wesley as well.

"Wowee." The Host noted as he peered down at the goings on, idly rubbing his temple. "He always told me those things were painful, but I'm gonna need a double Sea Breeze after this."

Keeping her hand protectively against the back of Doyle's head, Cordelia didn't bother to look up at the demon speaking over her shoulder. It was Doyle's scrunched up face that she kept her eyes focused on. "They're excruciating for him. Every time."

Just as soon as it had begun, the vision ended. The clarity returned to Doyle's eyes which now shimmered in the overhead lights of the lobby, and he took several deep gulps of air as his gaze fell first on Angel at his left and then Cordelia, cradling him from the right.

"You're okay." She whispered soothingly, as he coughed a few times and then sat up straight, trying to shake the cobwebs from his head.

"What did you see?" Angel asked as he squatted beside Doyle, keeping a stabilizing hand on his friend's back.

Doyle furrowed his brow as he replayed the images he'd just seen inside his mind and attempted to describe them aloud. "It was, ah… the public library." He said, lifting his fist to the middle of his forehead. "There was a girl with a book—a librarian, by the looks of things—she seemed kinda familiar."

"A librarian with a book at a library?" Cordelia asked with an arched brow. "That's all you got? That's kinda vague even for the Powers That love-to-be-vague."

"Well, that all sounds very fascinating." The Host remarked impatiently. "But I think our little bookworm can wait until after you slay the Drokken, am I right?"

"No, I don't think so." Doyle objected, as he slowly got to his feet with only mild assistance from both Angel and Cordelia. He nodded thanks to them both, and then looked over at the Host in a manner that left all joking aside. "Seems the Powers have taken an interest in your case here, bud—they've just sent us a lead."

"I wouldn't call it _my_ case, exactly." The Host hedged. "But, uh… what kind of lead are we talking?"

"You think the girl will be the Drokken's next victim?" Angel wondered, cutting to the chase.

Doyle was still staring daggers into the Host, a silent communication passing between the two demons, but he finally snapped his attention to Angel first and then Wesley. "Don't think she's a victim, but I did see an open portal behind her. I'm guessing that's no coincidence, yeah?"

"No, I should think not." Wesley agreed. "We'll have to head to the library first. See if we can find this young woman. Angel, grab the weapons, just in case. I'll bring the car around—it'll be faster than the tunnels." As Angel returned to the weapons cabinet to retrieve the items he'd hurriedly discarded moments earlier, Wesley turned to the edgy looking Host currently standing idly by. "You should come with us, of course."

"Gee, I thought you'd never ask." The Host replied unenthusiastically.

"Are you alright, Doyle?" Wesley asked finally, giving the smaller man a once over, noticing that he was still persistently rubbing at his head.

Doyle nodded in the affirmative, gesturing behind the reception counter, where he generally hid a bottle or a flask for self-medicating purposes. "I'll just grab a little something for the pain, and I'll be right as rain, yeah?"

Wesley didn't even bother with his usual glare of disapproval, he simply turned on his heel and strode out the front door with the Host shuffling along behind him, clearly a reluctant party.

Once they had gone, Cordelia swiftly leaned over the reception counter to open one of the top drawers and retrieved a rather large container of aspirin. She held it up toward Doyle and gave it a cheery little rattle. "I bought the big bottle—just for you."

A brief grin flickered across Doyle's lips, at her not-at-all-subtle attempt to keep him from his usual post-vision vice. Just like old times. He never could resist that hopeful smile of hers. And so, he held out an open palm in her direction, allowing her to shake a few of the small white pills into his hand. He tossed them back and swallowed them dry. "Thanks, darlin'. That'll do. Now what's say we find ourselves a nice librarian?"


	58. Belonging, Pt 4

**"Belonging," Part IV**

Doyle stood behind Cordelia, finding it hard to take his eyes off her. He knew he was supposed to be listening to the older woman standing behind the counter, who'd just informed them that the librarian they were searching for—the woman Doyle saw in his vision—was unavailable at the moment. Seeing how she'd been missing for the past five years. That should probably matter more to him than the way Cordelia's hair shined under the bright overhead lights.

However, instead of thinking about the poor endangered librarian from his vision, Doyle was rather captivated by the vision standing in front of him. Remembering the way she'd looked at him just a few short hours ago. And more importantly, reminding himself that she _had_ slowly, but surely, let him back into her life. He'd continue to ignore the not-so-friendshippy feelings if he had to—if she made it clear that he _should_ ignore them. But, what if she didn't want him to? The seed of possibility had been planted and had rapidly grown into a jungle. Which was rather unfortunate for the missing librarian.

"Doyle?" Cordelia had turned in his direction and was now looking strangely at him, her face etched with confusion. "Well…?"

He blinked at her, trying to recall just what it was she was asking him. "Huh?"

"Is this her?" She asked, sounding very much like she was repeating herself, holding up the flyer that had just been handed to her by the older woman. "The woman from your _book_ _club_?"

The instant his eyes fell on the attractive, smiling young woman whose face was printed on the white, crinkly piece of paper, it clicked into place. Yes, that was definitely her. Not just the woman from his most recent vision, although she was definitely that woman. He reached out and took the piece of paper from Cordelia, staring down at it in quiet awe. He swallowed away the lump that had crept into his throat. "Ah… yeah."

It was _her_. The woman he had scene in another vision from well over a year ago. The missing member of the Angel Investigations team. Her name was… "Fred." Doyle uttered the name out loud. Her name had been buried so deep in his subconscious, he wasn't even aware he knew it until he saw her face beaming up at him from the MISSING flyer. "That's her alright."

Looking up, Doyle saw the perplexed faces of his teammates, but he looked back down at the paper in his hand and saw that the woman's name was printed there, plainly, saving him from having to explain why he'd known it. Although, her name was technically Winifred. Winifred Burkle.

"We're gonna find her." Doyle declared, giving the flyer one last, long look before handing it off to Angel who stood beside him.

"You think you'll find her now? After all this time?" The woman behind the counter said with undisguised skepticism. "The police said if she didn't show up in the first week... well, we all stopped hoping a while ago."

"Ya should never give up hope." Doyle replied confidently. Feeling Cordelia's eyes on him, his own were magnetically drawn back in her direction, adding a new layer of meaning to his previously spoken words. This time, looking at Cordelia, he was caught up in a different aspect of his old vision of the future—the part where terrible things had befallen her in his absence. Something that seemed to be true in this reality as well as that other one; perhaps, Wesley had been right. They had always been better off together than apart.

Angel cleared his throat subtly, forcing Doyle to rip his eyes away from Cordelia and instead place them on the face of his best friend, who seemed to be silently wondering what Doyle had left out about this Fred woman. Meanwhile, Wesley had already turned back to the librarian behind the counter, missing the silent communications still transpiring between the others. "Can you tell us anything about her?"

"She worked here in the library with me. She was studying to be a physicist." The woman answered, trying to be helpful.

Wesley nodded along, still wearing a sympathetic expression. "And the day she disappeared...?"

"Oh, it was creepy." The woman replied, lifting a hand to her chest as she recalled the obviously traumatic event. "One minute she's cataloguing in the foreign language section and the next minute she's gone!"

"Thank you." Wesley said, nodding politely to the woman and turning back to his teammates. "We should start there." He directed them toward the stacks, where the Host was already waiting, remaining safely out of the librarian's sight.

"Doesn't look like she's here, huh?" The Host remarked, as the others rejoined him. "Y'know, I really liked that circular search pattern idea you pitched earlier. Any chance of going back to that?"

"We should spread out." Wesley instructed the others, ignoring the Host's complaints. "The Host and I'll start at the far end. Angel, you begin on the other side. Doyle—?"

Doyle had been standing a little too close to Cordelia's back, quietly enjoying the smell of her shampoo courtesy of his demon senses. He was startled into stepping back as Wesley addressed him, and ended up stumbling over his own feet and knocking into the shelves, sending several books crashing to the floor haphazardly. His clumsiness earned him yet another bemused look from Cordelia, not to mention everyone else.

"Any idea what we should be looking for?" Wesley asked, as Doyle scrambled to pick up the books he'd knocked over, silently chastising himself for his wandering mind—and senses. He hastily shoved the fallen books back on a shelf, paying no mind to the library's organization system.

"Ah… the book?" Doyle replied lamely, trying to play off his awkwardness by placing his hands on hips and motioning with his eyebrows. "The one from my vision looked kinda unusual—I'll know it when I see it."

"How will _we_ know it when we see it?" Angel asked, glancing warily around the various shelves, all of which were packed with books.

Doyle scrunched up his face in deep thought, but ultimately gave up with a shrug. "It was big and old-looking—and I got the impression it wasn't in a human tongue."

"Right. Well, keep your eyes peeled for old books that look demonic in nature." Wesley instructed as he headed in the opposite direction, motioning to the Host to follow him. Angel, too, headed off to his own designated area, leaving Doyle alone in the center aisle with Cordelia.

She immediately turned her back on him, focusing on the job at hand, tracing her fingers lightly along the spines of the books on the shelf as she searched for any demonic red flags. Doyle stared longingly for a moment and then reluctantly crossed to the opposite side of the aisle to begin investigating the books filed there. He threw one last yearning glance over his shoulder, and that's when he saw her shoulders drop and her head whip toward him, brow firmly arched upward. "Okay, what gives?" She demanded. "You have been _so_ incredibly weird since we left the hotel. Way weirder than can be considered normal, even for you. Did that last vision shake a screw loose or something?"

Doyle gulped loudly, feeling as if he'd just been caught red-handed, although he wasn't sure what he was doing, aside from repeatedly letting himself get distracted by the sudden need to tell her _everything_ , including but not limited to, how he still felt about her. The demon thing should probably come first, though.

"Is this about the librarian?" She wondered, momentarily giving up her own search to cross halfway to his side of the aisle. "You knew her?"

"Yeah… well, I didn't know her in the sense of ever having met the girl, no." He replied, stumbling over his words. "But, I recognized her. From that other vision. The one _you_ gave me."

The understanding came to Cordelia's eyes and she nodded as the pieces fell into place. "Right. Why am I not surprised?" She muttered unhappily. "Future stuff."

Apparently, that was enough of an answer for her, if not exactly the one she wanted to hear. She turned her back on him once again and resumed her search on the opposite side of the aisle, leaving him standing in place, feeling like he had much more to say.

After opening and closing his mouth several times, Doyle sucked in a deep breath and forced himself to expel it, along with all the words he'd been holding back. "That's not why I've been actin' weird—not that I'd call it 'weird' exactly, ah… The thing of it is, there are some things I've been meaning to talk to ya about."

She paused to give him a look that told him he wasn't doing much to dissuade her previous opinion of his weird behavior, but she shrugged as she turned and continued searching the shelf behind her. Bending down to check the bottom shelf, she inadvertently gave Doyle a spectacular view. "What kind of things?" She inquired nonchalantly over her shoulder.

Doyle tried to occasionally glance at the books on the shelf he was supposed to be searching, but his eyes persistently darted toward Cordelia's backside. "Personal… things. Mostly." He explained, abandoning his own search; he approached her from behind, watching as she gave up on the bottom shelf and stood on her tippy toes to search the top one instead. As she did so, his eyes fell on a familiar-looking book-spine beside her. He recognized it on sight and was torn between alerting her to that fact and continuing down the rabbit hole.

"Personal?" She echoed, the sound of her voice being absorbed by the rows of books in front of her. He noticed that her movements had slowed considerably. A sign that, although she kept herself turned away from him, she was definitely listening. "How personal?"

Down the rabbit hole it was.

"Well, I've been, ah… going through something." Doyle answered, unsure of exactly how he should present this particular revelation.

She had become completely motionless. "I know." She replied, slowly turning to face him, her eyes filled with a sad sort of understanding. "It's not the big secret you think it is, Doyle."

"It's not?" He gaped, his jaw dropping slightly open. "I mean, y'know…? Did Angel tell ya?"

"He didn't have to." She clarified, tilting her head. "I could see for myself how bad the drinking got. I'm glad you've decided to talk about it—but, maybe _now_ isn't the best time?"

"The drinking?" Doyle repeated, wrinkling his face up with distaste. "No, I don't wanna—That's not what—There's something else." He sputtered, as the sympathy in her eyes clouded over with confusion. "I've been changing, Cordy. _That's_ what's been going on. It's been happening for a while now, and up until very recently I was convinced I was becoming… I mean, I _thought_ —"

She cut off his aimless babbling. "Try finishing a damn sentence, Doyle. You thought what?!"

"I thought I was becoming a demon!" He blurted, cringing as the putrid words fell from his mouth.

"Huh?" She asked in puzzled exasperation. "Big whoop. You've always been half demon."

"I'm talking _whole_ demon, no option of a human face." Doyle admitted. "No human side at all."

"You thought _that_?!" She stared up at him disbelievingly. "Why would you think that?"

"I had good reason." He argued, letting the whole truth spill out of him now that he had removed the proverbial cork. "I felt it—I felt the demon takin' over. And let me tell ya, when _that_ first started happening it was like being suffocated by my own senses… Trust me, there are some things ya don't wanna be able to smell under _any_ circumstances. Then there was the little matter of me getting _stuck_ …"

He had never seen her eyes grow quite as wide as they were now, half full of fear, half full of concern, and entirely filled with something he couldn't readily identify. "Oh my God." She spoke, shaking her head slightly back and forth. "Are you okay? Is it still happening?"

"Well, there's not actually a cure for it… but see, it's kinda a funny story—." Doyle began, trying to diffuse her worry with an abashed grin.

"I doubt that." She cut him off, eyeing him warily. The wheels inside her head were spinning into overdrive, and it was becoming quite clear what that previously unidentified emotion was. "How long ago did it start?"

Doyle's grin dropped right off his face, and he averted his eyes to the books shelved far above Cordelia's head. "Since, ah… the fall, I guess, is when I really started noticing. But, I'm thinking it was probably happening a while before that."

That's when she whacked him on the upper arm.

"Ow!" He replied, rubbing the sore spot just below his shoulder. "What was that for?!"

" _We were still together_. And you never told me?!" She shouted up at him, bearing no mind that they were standing in a library.

"It wasn't as bad as all that." He argued defensively. "Not at first. And I didn't wanna make it a big deal, if it was nothing. It didn't get bad enough to worry 'til… ah."

"When?!" She demanded, her eyes blazing furiously, not willing to let his last sentence go unfinished. "When did you start _actually_ _worrying_ and still not breathe a word of it to me?"

He was almost scared to admit it then, and his voice started to give out on him, just a little bit. "The night at the museum." He conceded, taking a slight step away from her, fearing that she may be inspired to whack him a second time. Instead, the reaction he got from her was far worse.

A single flash of pain, like a lightening bolt.

That night was significant. It had been the beginning of the end, and it wasn't until much later that Doyle had been able to see that clearly and identify it as such. But, he'd figured it out, pinpointed that moment ages ago. And now Cordelia knew it as well. Unequivocally.

It was hard for her to digest, as evidenced by the sour expression that couldn't be blamed on the previous evening's food poisoning. "And after that night?" She asked, her voice coming out hoarse, which thankfully brought down the volume considerably.

"It got worse." He confessed. "Not right away, but when I was out there fighting the dragon. It was real bad..."

She closed her eyes then and shook her head in quiet disbelief, which caused him to leave his sentence hanging in the air, unfinished. Suddenly he felt terrible for opening his big, stupid mouth. The anger and annoyance, he was fine with. He expected that. But, pain was something he never wanted to cause her. He'd already caused her far too much of it.

"Don't you dare say what I think you're gonna say." She warned, reopening her eyes and glaring up at him.

"What is it y'think I'm gonna say?" He asked cautiously, debating the wisdom in taking another step back, since Cordelia looked suspiciously like a coiled snake at the moment.

"That this whole demon freak-out thing is the reason you gave me the brush off." Cordelia said bitingly. "That you were too busy hating yourself to even consider what I wanted!"

Doyle's eyes darted away from her face, unable to look at her as he confirmed her suspicions in the most round about manner possible. "Okay. I won't say it."

"Ugh!" She vented her extreme annoyance, throwing her head back and her hands up. "I could honestly hit you again!"

"I'd appreciate if ya didn't, love. I've got enough bruises from all the kicking myself I've been doing lately." He responded.

"And you're getting all confessional now, because why?" She asked, her fury staying at a steady simmer.

"Ah, well, we're friends again, yeah? Friends confide in each other." Doyle replied, clearing his throat nervously and once again attempting to disperse the storm clouds by revealing the silver lining. "And… as it turns out, my self-diagnosis was wrong. That was the funny bit I mentioned earlier."

She stared at him long and hard, seemingly at a loss for words. "Can't say I'm seeing the humor."

"Uh, guys…" Angel's apprehensive voice interrupted the heated stare between the two ex-lovers. The vampire stood awkwardly at the end of their aisle, his hands shoved deep inside his pockets. "Any luck?"

Doyle didn't take his eyes off Cordelia, as he abruptly reached out and grabbed the book he'd previously spotted. She gasped at his sudden movement, and then her eyes widened with surprise as he lifted the book off the shelf, and held it up for Angel to see.

"It's here." Doyle announced. "We found it."

Angel began to step forward to retrieve the book and then hesitated, perhaps sensing he'd be safer with reinforcements. "I'll just… " He pointed behind him and backpedaled in the opposite direction. "… get Wesley."

They were alone again, and Doyle found himself wishing, not for the first time, that he had the power to read Cordelia's mind. She looked distant now, adrift on a sea of her own thoughts.

"Cordy, I didn't mean to upset ya." Doyle said apologetically.

"I'm not upset." She said breezily, and mostly convincingly, reaching out to take the heavy tome from his hands. Opening it, she began flipping through the pages, which appeared to be filled with gibberish. "This isn't the first time you've kept your demon secrets from me—I'm used to it."

"Ah… I'm guessing we're not okay here?" Doyle supposed, his heart sinking at her icy tone.

"You guess right… because _this_ _book_ is impossible to read." She announced, scrunching up her nose as she inspected the pages in front of her. "I mean, I don't see any vowels. What language do you think it is?"

"Demon." Doyle answered tersely, frowning to himself as he observed that Cordelia's focus had completely shifted to the book. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she was simply brushing aside their previous conversation. But, he did know better, which is why a knot formed deep in his stomach.

"Crv dr pff lr ploos pls." Cordelia read from the book, as Doyle maneuvered behind her so he could read over her shoulder. Angel, Wesley and The Host reappeared—the Host in particular, looked rather panicky, holding up a finger to signal his objection to the consonants flowing freely from Cordelia's lips. "Vos strp umpt pls plsrts in uft frm pltz… seriously, I don't think this book is going to be helpful _at all_."

Suddenly, a bright light appeared out of nowhere, spiraling open before them, bringing with it a violent stream of wind. It whipped through the aisle, knocking books off the shelves and nearly knocking Doyle off his feet. Reflexively, he stepped in front of Cordelia, bracing her against the side of the bookshelf. Who knew what might come flying out of that thing!

Like, for example, a red-haired, green-skinned, demon, who looked vaguely like the Host—assuming the Host had joined the cast of Medieval Times.

On the upside, the blinding light and the violent wind disappeared upon this strange demon's arrival.

Doyle blinked in bemusement at the odd creature who tumbled on the floor beside him and then leapt to its feet, brandishing a shiny steel sword. Angel wasted no time, jumping in front of Doyle and Cordelia, who were most directly in the line of the creature's sight. The vampire kicked away the sword-wielding demon and continued forward to do more damage.

Doyle was pretty focused on the fight, barely aware of just how tightly he was embracing Cordelia, or how hard he was pressing himself against her soft curves. His body did those things involuntarily; keeping her safe was second nature to him. First nature, in fact, if there was such a thing. So too, her eyes were wide and fully focused on the dueling demon and vampire a few feet to their right. She jumped slightly as the demon dealt a nasty blow to Angel and Doyle felt her fingers dig worriedly into the material of his shirt.

"Landok?" The Host said with surprise, stepping forward from where he'd been, up until that point, merely observing the fight. "Is that you?"

Both the demon from the portal and Angel froze in place, in offensive positions. Staring at each other and then turning to look at the dazed-looking Host standing before them.

"You know him?" Angel asked, pointing to the demon he was currently fighting.

"Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok Clan?" The demon identified as Landok spoke, slowly lowering the sword to his side as he gaped at the Host. "Can that really be you?"

"No, no, don't let me interrupt." The Host replied, gesturing for Angel to continue. "Please, Angel, do go on."

"Krevlorneswath?" Angel repeated the unusual name questioningly.

"Of the Deathwok clan?" Wesley echoed from where he stood behind the Host.

Cordelia turned her head toward Doyle very abruptly, and only then did he realize just how close he was holding her. Had the circumstances been different—very, _very_ different—he would have enjoyed having her in his arms again. As it was, there was very little time for enjoyment. Especially as he watched the tightening of her jaw, indicating that she, too, had become aware of their close proximity, and was now reacting the way he expected her to.

Which was to say, unhappily so.

"Doyle." She said, lightly pushing against his chest, signaling for him to let go and move away.

Beside them the conversation between the mysterious portal jumper and the Host of Caritas continued, but it might as well have been happening a million miles away. "Eh… ah, I prefer Lorne." The Host was explaining to Angel and Wesley. "Although, I generally don't go by that because of…" He paused, and pointed to his face. "Green."

"I should probably let go now, huh?" Doyle mumbled back to Cordelia with a crooked grin, trying desperately to diffuse some of her apparent irritation. Somehow he doubted the dimple would cut it this time.

"Bonanza!" They vaguely heard Angel exclaim in the background.

"If you want me to be able to breathe, then yeah." Cordelia agreed firmly, although her body didn't seem to object half as much as her lips, which was the unfortunate downside of Doyle's demonhood. He could sense her physical reaction to him. Boy oh boy, how he wished he couldn't sense that. It made letting go of her that much _harder_ …

It was also about to make a few other things harder. Thus, letting go became essential.

Doyle cleared his throat uncomfortably and unwrapped his arms from around Cordelia's body. He then stepped backward, placing a few inches of space between them once again. But, that didn't exactly correct the problem. The air between them felt charged now, no matter how much more of it existed.

He watched as she casually brushed some hair out of her eyes and then bent down to pick up the heavy book that had crashed to the ground when the portal had opened. She cradled it against her chest like a shield, as if she needed to put something physical between herself and Doyle.

That was probably a good idea. If Doyle had been able to think a little clearer, he might have chosen to do that himself. Taking one additional step away from Cordelia, he slowly turned toward the continuing conversation going on to his left.

"Lead me to where the Drokken entered this world." Doyle heard the hairy Host-lookalike declare, as he held up his sword valiantly. "I will help you slay it."

Doyle merely blinked in bewilderment, trying to catch up with the story that had been unfolding around him while he'd been otherwise occupied. "Wait? He's a good guy?" He asked dumbly, pointing toward their new portal-jumping friend, not foe.

"Doyle, weren't you listening?" Wesley asked, with waning patience. "Landok, here, is the Host—I mean, Lorne's cousin. He has offered to help us track and kill the Drokken."

"Ah, yeah, o' course. I got it." Doyle fibbed, as he peered over at the tall, horned demon he'd previously only known as the Host. The green-faced demon now wore a deep scowl along with his fuchsia suit. "Lorne? Like Bonanza?"


	59. Belonging, Pt 5

**"Belonging," Part V**

Doyle stumbled through the labyrinth of wooden planks, stacked every which way. He hugged one arm across his sore body—he'd have some serious bruising on his ribs, to be sure. But, thankfully, he didn't suspect any actual breakage. His pants, on the other hand, were probably goners. A large tear across the left thigh didn't look like something that could be stitched up. On the other hand, the trickle of blood beneath the cloth of his pants, told him that those stitches might still be needed elsewhere.

Lurching ahead of him was Angel and Lorne, who held an injured Landok between them. As it turned out, the bite of the Drokken was deadly poisonous to Lorne's species, which certainly explained why he was so adamant about getting rid of the thing as quickly as possible. Turning to peer over his shoulder, Doyle saw Wesley taking up the rear, with his arm around the young lady they'd saved from the beast.

Wesley always seemed to be comforting the nubile young victim. Not that Doyle was interested in doing said comforting, but still, it did seem kind of suspicious that the _boss_ always got that particular job…

As Doyle came to the front door of the warehouse, a stab of pain shot through his side and he reached out to brace himself for a moment, pausing there while he caught his breath. The others continued past him and on toward Angel's car, which was parked at the curb.

He had his forehead buried in the crook of his elbow, which is why he was startled by a slender arm slipping around his waist. He looked up to see Cordelia offering her assistance. Her eyes raked over his battered body, landing on his bleeding thigh and she cringed, as she lightly encouraged him to lean on her and continue limping toward the curb. "You're not looking so hot, there, hero." She cajoled him as they lumbered along together. "Please tell me that thing didn't bite you?"

"Just a scratch." Doyle assured her. "But, I'm not the same type o' demon as those guys. I doubt the poison would effect me."

"That's really not one of those things you wanna find out the hard way." She remarked, as they finally got to the car, and she eased him forward so he could lean his backside against the hood.

"Ah, y'know me, Princess. I don't like doing _anything_ the hard way." He joked, grimacing as he shifted into a more comfortable position.

"Could've fooled me." She muttered under her breath, as she bent down to inspect the wound on his leg a little closer. She wrinkled her nose, as she reached out and gave it an unexpected poke.

"Ow!" Doyle yelped in pain. "Hey, watch it. That hurts!"

"I know." She replied evenly.

"Well, that's just not right. Y'know, if you're sore about what I told ya at the library, there are better ways to go about punishing a fella." He said with a gasp. "Like, say, your old tried and true method of the silent treatment. I always found that rather effective."

Her eyes briefly darted up to his face and then back down to his wound. "This is not me punishing you." She responded impatiently. "If I wanted to punish you, you'd know it. Now stop being such a baby and let me make sure you aren't going to bleed to death before we get back to the hotel."

Doyle sucked in a sharp breath, distracting himself from the pain by turning to see what Angel and Lorne were doing. As it so happened, they were settling their patient into the backseat of the convertible, assuring him that he wouldn't, in fact, be dying that day. Although, Doyle wasn't positive they could make any such assurance—the guy needed to get to his home world, and that was far easier said than done.

Hearing a ripping sound from below him, Doyle turned back to watch Cordelia tear away the very bottom of his pants leg, which she was now twisting into a tourniquet to slow his bleeding. "Don't complain about the pants, Doyle. They were ruined anyway. Not to mention how ugly they were in the first place." She said as she finished winding and securing the material around his wound and then stood up straight, absently wiping his blood off her hands and on to her own jeans. "You're gonna need stitches."

"Yeah, I kinda figured." Doyle said as a slow grin started to spread across his face. She still cared enough to tend to his wounds. She couldn't be _that_ upset with him, if she was looking at him with so much concern. _Right_?

"What?" She asked, looking down at her clothes and then lifting a hand to her hair. "Why are you looking at me like that? Is there something wrong with my hair?"

"No, darlin'. I was just thinking how right this feels." He admitted cautiously.

"Getting torn apart by some hell beast feels right to you?" She asked disbelievingly.

"Not that. The other part." He clarified. "The you-worrying-over-me bit. Just like old times, yeah?"

She rolled her eyes at his comment, side-stepping toward the hood of Angel's car to lean over the book from the library, which she'd left open there. "I'm not that worried. You'll live. That guy, on the other hand…" She nodded her head in Landok's direction with an unhappy expression in place. "I think he's gonna need a little help from this book."

"Uh huh." Doyle acknowledged, peering down at the pages full of nonsense that Cordelia was studying intently. "So, you've been brushing up on your demonic languages then, have ya?"

"Me? Understand this demon-babble? Pssshhh. Do I look like Wesley to you?" She remarked, flipping through several of the pages. "I don't think it matters what the book _says_. It only matters what it _does_."

Doyle shuffled through his vast array of perplexed faces before settling on the most obvious one. "Ah… I'm afraid you've lost me."

"Think about it." She said, putting a hand on her hip. "In your vision, you saw that girl, Fred, reading this book, right?"

"Yeah." Doyle agreed. "And I also saw the portal."

"Exactly!" She said excitedly, patting the pages that were spread open before her. "Missing girl, open portal. Don't you see? It works both ways!"

Doyle nodded along, starting to catch on to her theory, and very much seeing the wisdom in it. "Y'think if we read the book again it'll open another one and we can send Landok back?"

"Yeah." Cordelia confirmed. "But, I think there's a catch—it'll only work in places where there already _is_ a portal. Like, for instance, the library, which is closed at this hour."

"And Caritas." Doyle pointed out, staring at her with something resembling awe. "That's some real good thinking, there, darlin'. I'm thinking you _are_ starting to resemble Wesley, at the moment."

"Please. Wesley could never pull off these shoes." She commented wryly.

Doyle paused for a moment, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Landok and realizing the other side of all this—Fred was still on the other side of that portal. He frowned to himself as he considered the possibility that something had gone awry. Perhaps, it was Fred who was supposed to be sent back to them, rather than Landok. How else could she have gotten back to this side and been a part of their team? Something wasn't right and Doyle hated thinking it was his presence in the timeline that had made it that way. That some other poor, innocent girl would suffer for all eternity in a hell dimension because of him…

"You're thinking about the librarian." Cordelia's voice, snapped Doyle's attention back in her direction and he looked very much guilty as charged. "You're wondering how we can save her, right?"

Nodding dumbly in reply, Doyle envied Cordelia for her ability to read his thoughts so much easier than he could ever hope to read hers. He supposed that had always been the case, which was why he'd had to keep her at a distance when he wanted to keep something to himself. Being back in her orbit was far, far better than being alone with his secrets, that was for sure.

"Already thought of that." Cordelia continued brightly, pulling the folded up flyer from the library out of her pocket. "We send this picture and the book back with Landok. Once he's not dying anymore, he can save the damsel, and portal her back on over to us. No muss, no fuss."

Doyle lifted a brow, impressed once again by her rather ingenious thought process. "Gotta say, love. I could kiss ya right about now."

"As if I'd let you." She sassed back at him, before letting a wide smile take over her face. "I'd better go run the plan by the boss man." She said excitedly, slamming the book shut, heaving it off the hood of the car and practically skipping off in the direction Wesley was now approaching from, having seen the woman they'd saved safely to a cab.

Doyle watched Cordelia go, not able to wipe the proud grin off his face. She really was one of a kind.

* * *

"To defeat the Drokken, you must be a great and noble warrior." Landok, who was seated alone on the stage in an otherwise-empty Caritas, was addressing Angel who stood on the ground before him. "I am happy to know you."

"He had some help." Doyle grumbled from a few paces back, thinking of his bloody thigh and sharing a commiserating look with Wesley, who also looked somewhat put out by Landok's praise of Angel alone. All three men, as well as Landok, had been in the thick of the fight. And if Gunn had actually answered any of Wesley's pages, he'd have been there, too.

"You are brave squires." Landok amended, nodding toward the others graciously.

"Squires?" Wesley echoed with mild distaste.

"Is that better than sidekicks?" Doyle wondered.

Lorne, who was standing on the stage behind his cousin, leaned over and gave the other demon a pat on the shoulder. "Landok, be safe."

"Goodbye, Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok Clan." Landok replied. "I feel we will meet again someday."

"Oh, God. I hope not." Lorne responded, circling around to the staircase to join the others on the floor below.

Cordelia walked over to the edge of the stage and passed the heavy portal-opening book to the dying demon. "All you have to do is read the book aloud." She instructed him and then gave a little shrug. "That's the theory anyway."

"Thank you." Landok replied, taking the book from her and placing it open in his lap. "I shall do as you say, and I shall repay my debt to you when I reach the soil of my homeland."

"Oh, right. About that debt…" Cordelia said, pulling the folded up flyer out of her back pocket and handing it over to Landok. "That's her—that's Fred. The woman you need to send back to us."

"She is… human." Landok noted, appearing slightly baffled as he stared down at the flyer.

"100 percent." Cordelia confirmed. "Should make it a breeze. She probably sticks out like a sore thumb over there in—whatever hell dimension you're going to. Bon voyage!"

As Cordelia bounded away to rejoin the others, Landok looked over at Lorne, with a conflicted look, and a silent, secret communication was shared between the two of them. In the end, Landok nodded with finality as he turned back to face the several pairs of non-demon eyes aimed in his direction. "It will be done."

"We truly can't thank you enough." Wesley spoke up.

Doyle became very aware of Cordelia's arm brushing against his as she took her place beside him in the lineup of observers. And he found himself turning his head to glance over at her, wanting very much to finish what he'd started earlier that day. "Hey." He said in little more than a whisper, leaning closer to her. "After we see off Landok here, y'think you and I can pick up where we left off in the library?"

She whipped her head in his direction with a somewhat alarmed look and Doyle could only begin to imagine what she _thought_ he was implying.

"The conversation." He clarified. "Wasn't exactly finished, yeah?"

"Oh. It wasn't?" She looked a little relieved at first, and then retreated back to a defensive posture. "I dunno, Doyle..."

"Please, darlin'?" He begged quietly. "Just hear me out. No interruptions. That's all I'm asking."

She looked up at his face, studying him intently as she decided what it was she wanted to do. "There's more you need to tell me, huh?"

"Ah… yeah, a few things." He admitted, flashing her a quick view of the dimple, hoping it would increase his chances of getting her to agree to an evening alone with him. "I'm thinking you'll probably wanna do some o' the talking yourself. Whether ya like what ya hear or not."

"Well… " She looked up at him thoughtfully before dropping her eyes down to his shoddily bandaged thigh. "I do need to stitch you up before you pass out from the blood loss."

"That sounds like a 'my place or yours' if ever I heard one." He joked, with an air of hopefulness.

"Mine." She replied firmly. "Definitely mine—your place is _disgusting_."

Doyle felt his heart thump extra hard in his chest and his internal thermostat took an upward spike. She was willing to let him finish clearing the air—that was a step in the right direction if ever there was one. But, there was an awfully lot of air to clear. Far more than he'd even started to touch on in the library.

He swallowed the rapidly-formed lump in his throat, and bobbed his head in the affirmative. Accepting her invitation. Anticipating that, one way or the other, he would know where he stood with her by the night's end. His fingers twitched with the desire to reach out for her hand, but he knew that would be out of line. He forced himself to turn back to the stage, where the bright light of the portal had started to appear, bringing with it a ferocious wind—even more powerful than the wind they'd felt in the library. Doyle raised his arms to shield his face from the blinding light, feeling himself be pulled a step forward as the portal sucked Landok back to the land from which he came.

And then it was gone. Just like that. The light, the wind—all gone. Silence was all that remained, and an empty stage where Landok had previously been sitting.

There were dark spots in Doyle's eyes from the light of the portal, which he rapidly tried to blink away. Taking in the shapes of the others in the room, one by one.

"What's say we all forget this ever happened?" Lorne requested hopefully, as he lurched forward to investigate the Landok-less stage.

"Fine with me." Wesley replied. "Although, when and if another portal opens in the middle of your stage, you will be obligated to tell us."

"I just hope it spits out a librarian and not a Drokken." Lorne agreed.

"Do we know if she'll end up here or at the library?" Angel wondered, looking questioningly at Wesley and then turning to the woman standing to Doyle's right.

It was then that Doyle, too, turned to face Cordelia… and found only empty space beside him. "Cordy?!"

He spun around to take in the entire room, his eyes darting to Angel, Wesley, and Lorne anxiously. They all suddenly looked terribly concerned as Doyle called the name of their missing companion for a second time. "Cordelia?!"

There was no reply.

Cordelia, like Landok and the portal, was simply… _gone_.

* * *

 **A/N- Well, you didn't think it'd be *that* easy, did you? :p**

 **For anyone still wondering about the status of Doyle's "brain damage," hopefully, the last couple of chapters clarified things. Doyle hasn't been cured "off-screen." The visions are still damaging him; the demon is still trying to heal him. And Doyle still hates being a demon and generally avoids it at all costs. It's not that Doyle's in denial exactly, it's just that he's being EXTREMELY stubborn. He'd rather live with his symptoms than spend time in his spikes... for now. Obviously, that won't always be the case, because one of his symptoms is his lack of control. You see where this is going.**

 **Anyway, there are some very exciting chapters ahead. These last few episodes were a thrill to write, so I really hope you enjoy reading them!**


	60. Over the Rainbow, Pt 1

**"Over the Rainbow," Part I**

"Cordelia!" Angel shouted from behind Doyle, as if she was merely hiding somewhere in the club and would pop out at any moment. God, how Doyle wanted her to pop out at any moment.

Doyle himself was frozen in place, watching in slow motion as Wesley plopped down into an empty chair, clearly beside himself. Angel, in an uncharacteristic show of optimism, leapt onto the stage to begin searching behind the curtains. Still calling out her name. "Cordy!"

"She's gone." Wesley moaned, which is when Doyle felt himself snap back into real time.

"No! No, man. She's not gone! She can't be _gone_!" He shouted back at Wesley and then spun around and paced over to the bar to check that she wasn't cowering behind it, which, of course, she was not. Bracing himself against the edge of the bar, Doyle tried to stop himself from completely freaking out and tried to reach for whatever small logical streams still existed in his brain. "Wait—she's got the book, yeah? Just give 'er a sec. I'm sure she'll come right back through the portal… Any minute now."

Angel stood up from where he was searching behind one of the curtains, holding up the thick book in his hand. "She doesn't have the book." He announced grimly, deep worry lines etched across his brow.

"Oh, dear." Wesley lamented, dropping his head into his hands. He was still in his seated position in the center of the room, looking every bit a man defeated. "How did I let his happen?"

It was the same question Doyle was asking himself. How had Cordelia, who had been standing mere inches away from him, been taken away so swiftly and without him even being aware that it'd happened? Why hadn't he reached out and grabbed her like he'd wanted?! If he'd been holding on to her, she'd still be there in that room with him instead of…

Where the hell was she?! And more importantly which _hell_ was she in?

Doyle swung himself back around the bar and swept to the stage to yank the weighty portal-book out of Angel's hands. It didn't matter where she was—it mattered that he was going to get her back. He had to get her back! He began rapidly flipping through the pages, hoping he'd recognize the one she'd read from earlier.

"Doyle, um… I know what you want to do, but I don't think that would be wise—" Wesley remarked, slowly standing up from his chair, one finger raised in objection.

"I don't care!" Doyle snapped back at Wesley, leaving little room for discussion. "I'm going through that portal and I'm bringing Cordy back! With or without your help."

Wesley took the little room for discussion and ran with it. "If you do that, what's to say you won't get trapped there forever? We may never get _either_ of you back."

"Well, then I hope there's a nice neighborhood pub on the other side." Doyle snapped back without slowing his frazzled movements, finally finding the page he was seeking. "If y'think I'm leaving her alone over there, you've got another thing coming, bud!"

"Doyle, I'm not suggesting we leave her there. Merely that we do a little research before jumping headlong into some unknown dimension, which—no offense," He said nodding toward Lorne, "Is very likely what we'd consider a hell dimension, judging by the natives." Seeing that his argument was having no impact on Doyle whatsoever, Wesley sighed heavily and turned to appeal to the other member of his team. "Angel, you've been trapped in a hell dimension yourself—you see my point, don't you?"

"I do." Angel said simply, looking Wesley dead in the eye. "Which is why I agree… with Doyle. If Cordy's over there, then we have to go. There's no time to lose." He turned to Doyle, gesturing toward the open pages. "Read it."

Wesley stood in place, wearing a grim expression, while Lorne moved farther away from the stage, inching back toward the rear bar to grab ahold of the counter, so as not to accidentally meet the same fate as Cordelia.

"Krv Drpglr pwlz..." Doyle read from the book as best he could manage, knowing he was absolutely mangling the already cryptic language. Angel was at his heels, and both men were on the stage, prepared to leap into the swirling, glowing orb once it opened before them. "...chkwrt strplmt dwghzn prqlrzn lffrmtplzt."

And all at once…

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Doyle had finished reading the words, and looked up at the empty space in front of him, then down at the book again and back up at the empty space. "Krv Drpglr pwlz chkwrt strplmt dwghzn prqlrzn lffrmtplzt." He muttered again under his breath, checking to make sure he didn't miss any part of the incantation. But the empty space in front of him remained as such. An even more defeated Wesley, once again collapsed into his chair, as Angel reached out and took the book from Doyle, double-checking his friend's work.

There was also someone else in the room, trying to pretend that he wasn't there at all. Someone who had to know a little more about this whole portal thing than he'd let on.

Glaring over at the place where Lorne stood nervously wringing his hands behind the bar, Doyle jumped down off the stage and stalked across the floor, stopping just short of grabbing the lanky demon roughly by the collar and shouting in his face. "Where is she?!" He demanded. "How do I get 'er back?!"

"Pylea—is the place." Lorne replied, taking a big, nervous gulp as he looked down into Doyle's furious eyes and held up his hands in surrender. "And… I don't know."

"What d'ya mean ya don't know?!" Doyle yelled back, poking an angry finger into Lorne's chest. "Ya came through one o' those things yourself, once upon a time, yeah? Ya must have some idea how it works!"

"I don't!" Lorne repeated, still holding up his hands in utter defeat. "Honestly. I wish I did. You _know_ I'm incredibly fond of the lovely and talented, although completely tone-deaf, Miss Chase—you think I want her stuck over there, in _my_ world?" He literally shuddered at the thought. "I'd never wish that place on anyone who looks like her… I mean, I didn't even wish it for myself. Hence, my very mysterious, but much-welcomed immigration to more earthly pastures. Where I plan to stay forever and ever. The end."

"I'm guessing they don't see a lotta humans over there? In _Pylea_?" Doyle questioned, backing off only slightly; still on the verge of snapping.

"Actually, they do, which is the real problem." Lorne replied, pausing for a moment to smooth down the lapels of his garishly-colored suit. He hitched a finger at the area behind the bar. "You mind if I pour us a few, before I get into it? I have a feeling you're gonna need it just as much as I will, once I start spinning this particular yarn."

Not waiting for an answer, Lorne shuffled off behind the bar to retrieve several glasses and a bottle of the good stuff. Seeing that, Doyle felt his stomach drop through the floor. This definitely wasn't going to be a tale Doyle wanted to hear.

* * *

Doyle was pacing rapidly to and fro out in the rear courtyard of the Hyperion. Rather, he was limping rapidly, on account of his injured thigh, which had been hastily stitched together by Wesley. He brought his half-smoked cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag. Cordy would hate that he was smoking on her account—heck, she'd hate that he was smoking, period—but he needed to do _something_ to deal with his frayed nerves. Not that they would be getting any less frayed anytime soon. Not until he knew Cordelia was safe and unharmed would he be able to do anything close to _calming_ _down_ , which is what Wesley had so unhelpfully suggested he do.

As if calming down was anywhere on the list of things Doyle could do at the moment. Sleeping, also not on the list. Smoking and pacing, yeah, that worked, but only because he'd finished interrogating Lorne and wasn't in any frame of mind to focus on research. Even Wesley, the book-master himself, was having some trouble with this one. Inter-dimensional portals weren't exactly commonplace.

Too bad the Oracles were long gone—Doyle would have gladly risked the possibility of being turned into a toad in order to find out how to save Cordelia. He supposed there was always the Conduit, but that probably wasn't something he should do until all other options had been exhausted. If he went to the Conduit now, he wouldn't just end up a toad, he'd end up a _fried_ toad. And that wouldn't help Cordelia at all.

The only small semblance of comfort Doyle could find in any of this was that Landok was with Cordelia, and he would certainly look out for her. That, along with the fact that Fred, the librarian from Doyle's visions, was still very much alive, was the only thing that kept Doyle from completely losing it. After all, if a timid, waif of a girl like _that_ could survive in Pylea for five years, then surely a fierce creature such as Cordelia would manage. On the other hand, based on what Lorne had told them about the medieval demon hell-hole from which he came, being fierce wasn't exactly a trait that was welcomed in humans. In fact, it was quite frowned upon and could result in some unpleasant repercussions. _Very_ unpleasant.

There had certainly been times when Cordelia's habit of bluntly speaking her mind had gotten them in trouble, or led to hurt feelings or, occasionally, an argument, and yet Doyle had never wanted her to stop doing it. In truth, it was one of the things he'd always loved most about her right from the beginning. Now, for the first time since he'd met her, he wished that wasn't her most defining attribute. And he hoped against hope that she'd bite her tongue for once, keep her head down and stay out of trouble until the point where Doyle and Angel and the others could get her out of that place. _Please, Cordy, just this once,_ he silently begged.

Doyle didn't see or hear Angel enter the courtyard, as the vampire was incredibly stealthy by nature, but he sensed the exact moment when Angel exited the hotel. Which caused Doyle to slow his erratic pacing, and gradually turn to face the shadowy corner where he knew Angel lurked. Doyle took another long drag off his cigarette as he raised his brows to the unseen observer he knew was there. "Ya shouldn't be out here—almost dawn."

"It's not dawn yet." Angel's voice came first, and then he stepped forward, finally revealing himself. His hands were shoved deep inside his pockets, and his expression was that of grave concern. "You okay?"

"Do I look okay?" Doyle grumbled in reply. "Wesley find anything?" Angel's head dropped forward and he studied the ground beneath his shoes, which caused Doyle to cock his head to the side in warning. "Just give it to me straight, man. Whatever it is."

"The portal's cold." The vampire replied with a shrug.

Doyle narrowed his eyes at Angel with uncertainty, taking a final drag off his cigarette and dropping it to the ground to stomp it out with his boot. He exhaled the smoke along with his words. "Then we get some jackets and scarves, grab a hot toddy for the road. Who cares how cold it is—can we open one or not?"

"No, I mean, it's cold, as in, it ran out of juice." Angel clarified, moving further into the courtyard and lifting his head upward to take in the slowly lightening sky; it shed very little light on the two demons standing beneath it. "That's why it wouldn't open again when you read the book—it needs to recharge."

Doyle stared at Angel's demeanor, knowing full well there was something else the vampire wasn't saying. "Yeah? And how long does that take?"

"Probably longer than you wanna wait." Angel admitted reluctantly, dropping his eyes from the sky to finally meet Doyle's directly, and apologetically.

"We go to the library, then." Doyle replied emphatically. "What time does the place open?" He lifted his arm to stare at his empty wrist and dropped it back to his side. "Better yet, what's say we save ourselves a few hours and just go ahead and break in?"

"That's not all…" Angel continued, which made Doyle's throat constrict with worry. "From what Wesley's been reading, Cordelia probably didn't arrive on the other side with Landok. The portal would've separated them." He explained, with some hesitation. "It'll do the same to us, if we try and go through together. We could end up on opposite ends of the world."

"So, you're telling me, she's all alone over there?! In some hell dimension where they treat humans like animals!" Shaking his head in frustration, Doyle turned away to pick up his frenzied pacing from moments earlier, rubbing his forehead anxiously. "Then, I'll go alone—no point in having us all scattered about the place."

"I'm not going to let you do that, Doyle." Angel countered easily. "No matter what, I'm going with you. This is Cordelia we're talking about—she's my priority, too."

"I was distracted, man." Doyle verbally kicked himself. "There I am, letting myself daydream 'bout getting her back, and completely blind to the fact that she was slipping away! Y'know, a paranoid individual, such as myself, has to wonder if the Powers That Be weren't trying to send me a little message, yeah?"

"That's not how they send you messages." Angel pointed out, keeping his voice even. "The Powers didn't do this—why would they?"

"I dunno. To warn me off." Doyle said with a defeated shrug. "Keep me from doing 'er any more harm than I've already done?"

Angel stared at Doyle for a long beat, in quiet disagreement. "You've never done her harm."

Doyle didn't answer, but the brief eye contact he shared with Angel spoke of a thousand reasons. A thousand insecurities. A thousand faults. A thousand times he let his own agenda take priority over her happiness. Sure, he wanted to make up for it; he was finally reaching out to make amends… but all that he'd reached was an empty space where Cordelia used to stand.

"It was just bad luck, Doyle. Plain and simple." Angel continued, removing his hands from his pockets and folding them over his chest as he curiously watched Doyle pace like a madman. Probably picking up on the fact that they were no longer strictly talking about the events of that evening.

"Which part?" Doyle wondered, with a heavy swallow. "'Cause I gotta tell ya, man, I can't remember the last time I had any other kinda luck. And the fact that it's been rubbing off on Cordy..."

"You need to let it go." Angel replied simply, with the slight air of judgment to his statement. "Whatever you're still blaming yourself for—it wasn't your fault. None of it. Just like tonight wasn't your fault. You think seeing the future means you're responsible for everything that happens, but you're not. You're a _guide_ , Doyle, not a God. You don't see everything, you don't know everything. And what you're doing now… it isn't helping."

Doyle stopped in place, letting his shoulders droop as he felt the weight of his misplaced guilt bear down on him. "No, I guess it really isn't, no." He lifted his eyes up to Angel, letting his fear and doubt show through loud and clear. "I just want her back, man. Even if I have to live the rest o' my days in some hell dimension where I'm wearing shackles and serving demon masters and all that. Although, honestly, I'm hoping it doesn't come to that, for her sake more than mine."

"We're gonna get her back, and we're gonna make it back here—all of us, together." Angel said determinedly. "But, from there… the rest is up to you."

"Yeah, okay. So, what's the next step then?" Doyle wondered. "If not the library, then what?"

"Wesley's working on it." Angel assured him, taking a few steps back, so he could retreat to the safety of the shadows as the light in the sky slowly and incrementally started to brighten. "And I've asked Lorne to find us a new hotspot. Unless… do you know a guy?"

"I might." Doyle conceded. "But Lorne's guy probably won't be looking for the kinda cash I owe my guy. And if he is, well, Lorne can foot the bill, yeah? Seeing how all o' this is on him in the first place."

"Oh, he's getting a bill for the Drokken." Angel assured, as he turned away from Doyle to head toward the door leading back into the lobby. "But, that's Cordelia's department."


	61. Over the Rainbow, Pt 2

**"Over The Rainbow," Part II**

 _Knock, knock, knock._

Doyle stood anxiously outside the closed door, waiting for the undoubtedly sleepy occupants of the small home to answer. He didn't bother looking at his empty wrist this time. The sun was barely up, which meant most civilized people wouldn't be expecting visitors at this hour, even if they were already awake.

 _Knock, knock, knock._

Again, Doyle knocked on the door, and waited. Considering the hour, there was no doubt that someone was home. Only the question of what that someone would do upon seeing an anxious, disheveled, sleep-deprived Irishman on the front porch.

Finally, the door swung open, revealing a rather perplexed man who looked to be roughly in his early-thirties. He was a good-looking fellow with sandy blonde hair that was bedraggled at the moment, and behind his black wire-framed glasses were a pair of pale blue eyes, which still looked heavy with sleep. The man wore a t-shirt and sweats as he stood in the open doorway, blinking at Doyle in confusion and annoyance. "Can I help you?" He asked guardedly, peering behind Doyle to see if he should be on the lookout for an entire gang of poorly dressed individuals who had the habit of banging on doors at odd hours and rousing people from sleep. He then turned his curious eyes back toward Doyle with the slightest flicker of recognition. "You're…uh…?"

"Yeah, I'm here to see Harry." Doyle replied without bothering to introduce himself properly. Clearly, the guy—whose name escaped Doyle, although he was sure Harry had mentioned it at some point—recognized Doyle, which meant that Harriet had either described Doyle incredibly well, or shown this man an old photograph. He was guessing the latter, judging by the way the other man was subtly sizing him up. Certainly, Doyle's accent confirmed whatever question remained about his identity. "It's kinda urgent. She awake?"

The other man opened his mouth to say something, his brow wrinkling slightly, but then he closed his mouth in reconsideration and finally took a step back, gesturing for Doyle to enter. "Sure. You wanna come in? It's… Francis, right?"

"Doyle." Doyle clarified, not bothering to step into the house. "I'll just wait out here, thanks."

The blonde man nodded uncertainly and then half-closed the door as he disappeared inside, leaving Doyle to pace alone on the front porch. Although, he didn't have to pace for long.

"Francis?" Harriet's voice snapped his attention back to the front door as she came outside, wrapping a heavy robe around herself and securing it at her waist. "What's wrong?"

Doyle had to chuckle dryly at the instantaneous assumption that he'd come knocking out her door because there was trouble. Granted, she was right. And, really, he couldn't imagine himself knocking on her door for any other reason these days.

"Are you alright?" Harriet asked worriedly, looking him up and down. Doyle's leg still throbbed beneath his pants leg, but it was stitched and bandaged now, and hidden beneath a pair of pants that weren't ripped to shreds. On the surface, there was nothing out of place. Aside from the extra baggage he carried beneath his eyes, he was the same old Doyle he had always been to the naked eye. It was only inside that he was all tied up.

"Sorry to show up like this—I know it's early." Doyle said apologetically, and then gave her a tentative half-smile as he nodded toward the doorway of the house. "He's better looking than Richard, that's for sure."

Harriet narrowed her eyes at him with increased concern, ignoring his kneejerk habit of prying into her private life. "What's going on, Francis?"

"Right. Well, I, ah… might be going away for a while..." Doyle answered, as his exhausted brain tried to find the proper way to frame his current predicament. Apparently, he wasn't doing such a bang up job, judging by Harriet's look of abject horror.

"You're going to jail?" She asked incredulously.

"Ah… no." Doyle corrected, and then cocked his head sideways to level a thankless glare at his ex. "But thanks for the vote of confidence there, Harry. Nice to know what y'think of me these days."

"Don't try and turn this around." She argued back unapologetically. "You show up at my door at the crack of dawn and tell me you're going away—what am I _supposed_ to think?"

Doyle exhaled deeply, as he anxiously ran his hand through his hair. "Let's just start over, yeah? … I came here to ask ya about the time you spent working with that demon princess, Jhiera—saving all those female demons from their dimension." He reminded her. "Did ya ever happen to learn anything 'bout the portals themselves—how they worked and all that?"

"The portals?" Harry echoed. "No, that wasn't really where my help was needed. Jhiera would bring the girls over and I would help them adjust to this dimension. I rarely even saw the portals open… Why? Please don't tell me you're trying to open a portal?" Her eyes widened in dismay as she quickly deduced why he might be asking such a thing. She wrapped her robe even tighter around her body. "That's incredibly dangerous, Francis. Especially, if you don't know what you're doing. You shouldn't be playing around with something like that."

"I'm not playing." Doyle responded matter-of-factly. "I know it's dangerous, which is why I came here." He licked his lips nervously as he examined the genuine concern etched across the face of his ex-wife. "The thing of it is… I'm going, Harry, and I may not be coming back. And I guess this time, I just wanted to give ya a proper goodbye."

Harriet clamped her lips together tightly as she took in the serious nature of his words, and Doyle saw the pools of sadness that instantly welled up in her eyes. "Are you going to tell me where you're going?" She asked quietly. "Or why?"

"Ah, I suppose I'm finally taking your advice and going to hell." Doyle said with a chuckle, which earned him a warning look from Harriet. "Don't worry—as hell dimensions go, this one is fairly light on the fire and brimstone."

" _Why_ would you do that?" Harriet repeated, looking the opposite of amused by Doyle's attempt at levity.

"Cordelia." Doyle replied simply. "She's there. And she's alone."

Harriet's eyes clouded over with fear, but then came the dawn of understanding. The sadness in her eyes, however, didn't wane. "Well, then, you have to go, don't you?" She said supportively. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Doyle shook his head, and dropped his head to the floorboards of the porch beneath his feet. "Not unless ya remember anything about the portals."

She shook her head apologetically. "I'm sorry. There's nothing I can think of—I mean, I might be able to contact one of the Oden Tal women. It's possible one of them may know something that could help you."

"Nah, that's alright." Doyle declined. "We'll be gone before you'd hear back… Ya just take care o' yourself, yeah? Make sure that new guy does right by ya, or I'll be coming back from hell to make him wish he had."

Harriet nodded with resignation, inching forward and reaching out a hand to brace his upper arm. "I'm glad you came to say goodbye." She said sincerely. "But, I also hope this isn't _actually_ goodbye."

"Not as much as I do." He remarked, flashing her a slight, thankful smile. He shifted his weight, pulling a card out of his pocket, where he had written Gunn's name and contact information. "Here." He said, passing the card over to Harriet. "That's the name of my colleague who's staying behind. If he ever comes knocking on your door, asking for help, just know that it's probably for me, yeah?"

"Okay." She agreed, taking the card and glancing at it quickly, before looking back up at Doyle, expectantly. "I'll be here."

He nodded down at her, and then stepped forward to pull her into his arms. She came willingly, hugging him back in a way that clearly communicated her concern for him, and her desire not to let go. It felt good, after all they'd been through, to know that Harriet still cared. That she would still miss him. That, if he ever needed her help, she'd be there. And he sincerely hoped he would be coming back to offer the same to her.

Their embrace lasted a beat longer than it probably should have, but if this was going to be the last time they ever laid eyes on each other, they might as well make it count.

* * *

"Did you leave all the lease information with Gunn? For the Hyperion?"

The question was posed by Wesley, from his place in the backseat of Angel's convertible. If his research was accurate, the metal enclosure of the vehicle would keep the four occupants together as they traveled through the portal.

"I did. It's set for the next six months. After that…?" Angel shrugged his reply as he glanced at Wesley through the rearview mirror.

"We'll be here to take care of it." Wesley answered, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "Naturally."

"That's the spirit! Blind optimism—if only it wasn't so lacking in foresight." Lorne piped in from where he reluctantly sat in the back beside the Brit. He had made no secret of the fact going back to Pylea was the last thing he wanted to be doing. Nevertheless, he had managed to come through with locating another hotspot. "Just do me a favor, my little Irish friend—hold onto that book as if your life depends on it… because, I'm pretty sure it does." He reached forward to the half-demon seated in the passenger seat and patted him on the shoulder. "I mentioned they don't have alcohol over there, right?" Lorne added. "Of any kind."

"More than once." Doyle grumbled back. "I wanna come back here as much as you do, bud. I'm not letting go o' the book."

"Oh, I doubt anyone could want to come back here as much as I do." Lorne answered, slumping back in his seat. "Except maybe Cordelia, assuming Pylea's been as welcoming to her as I assume it has."

"Alright. Shall we begin?" Wesley asked, also sitting back and bracing his hand tightly against the side of the car until his knuckles turned white.

Angel turned on the ignition as all eyes turned toward the empty space in front of the convertible. The headlights were flipped on revealing a tall, dark figure looming over the front bumper.

"Hey, y'all weren't gonna leave without me, were you?"

The figure circled around to the passenger side door, revealing itself to be Gunn. As per usual, his handmade axe was slung over his shoulder. He leaned against the front side of the windshield taking in the four, anxious-looking occupants of the car.

"What about your crew?" Angel asked. "I thought they needed your help."

"Yeah, well… they ain't the only ones. Cordy needs my help, too." Gunn pointed out, his eyes settling on the face of the half-demon closest to him. "You really thought I'd leave her hanging like that, D?"

"I knew ya had your reasons for staying behind." Doyle replied easily, although he did feel better knowing that Gunn wanted in. Knowing that Cordelia meant as much to the rest of them as she did to him. "And they were good ones—which is why ya _should_ stay."

"Come again?" Gunn asked in disbelief. "You realize I'm the best fighter on the team, aside from Angel, right? You really wanna be facing a whole world of hell beasts without me?"

"Um, Doyle… I don't think that's your call to make." Angel mumbled, giving a little nod toward Wesley in the back seat.

"I tend to agree with Doyle." Wesley confirmed from his place behind Angel. "We should have someone on this side, in case we don't make it back."

"Someone to help save us after we get trapped in Pylea for all eternity?" Lorne asked worriedly. "Because, if you need a volunteer, I'd be more than happy to trade places with Gunn here. Keep an eye on the hotel, take any phone messages, water the plants…"

"You're serious?" Gunn wondered, still looking rather perplexed by the turn of events. "You don't want me to help rescue her?"

"Staying here _would_ be helping." Doyle clarified, catching Gunn's eye and making sure he knew just how serious he actually was. "It'd be helping all of us—and, should anyone come looking for help in our absence, it'd be helping them, too."

Gunn sighed heavily as he finally accepted what Doyle was saying. He nodded his agreement, removed his hand from the front of Angel's car, and stepped back a few paces. "Yeah, alright. I get it. I'll be your backup guy, if that's what you want."

"Unless you want _me_ to be your backup guy?" Lorne pleaded one more time and received a chorus of angry glares in response. "Right—just buckling my safety belt."

"Ya'll better come back." Gunn ordered, giving his teammates a salute. "I ain't looking to go solo."

"Doyle." Wesley urged from the backseat, gripping onto the seat in front of him. "Take it away."

Doyle nodded, opening the heavy book in his lap and reading from the page in front of him. Keeping his hands tightly wrapped around the thick tome, he read the strange words printed on the page. "Krv Drpglr pwlz chkwrt strplmt dwghzn prqlrzn lffrmtplzt!"

The wind picked up as the brightly lit portal opened wide in front of them, waiting to consume the convertible and the four travelers contained inside.

"Say goodbye!" Angel declared, as he flipped the car into drive and stepped on the gas, sending the convertible shooting forward into the mouth of the portal. In an instant, the car was engulfed in light and disappeared, and soon the portal itself closed around the rear bumper leaving only darkness in its wake. Darkness and an empty street corner in a movie studio where Gunn stood alone, gaping at the spectacle he'd just witnessed.

"Damn." He mumbled under his breath. "This job never gets any less weird."

Stepping into the place where the convertible had been only moments earlier, Gunn spun around to take in the entire area, just to make sure his eyes hadn't deceived him. And that's when he nearly tripped over the object that was lying on the ground where the portal had once been. He stooped down to lift the heavy book, warily eyeing the strange demonic gibberish that passed for a title.

"I _know_ this can't be good."


	62. Over the Rainbow, Pt 3

**"Over The Rainbow," Part III**

"Y'know, it's really kinda pretty here." Angel announced cheerily as he marched behind Lorne toward the outskirts of the main village. He was happy as a clam, which was rather unusual for the generally broody vampire. But, freely walking in the sunshine after centuries of hiding in the dark could do that to a fellow. "Maybe I can get a little color."

Of course, Angel was the _only_ happy one.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll be getting a lot of color under the bright suns of Pylea… considering we're now trapped here for all eternity." Lorne remarked sourly. "I can't believe you let go of the book."

That last comment was directed at Doyle, who was far too annoyed by his own set of circumstances to care about the stupid book, or put up with being blamed for its loss. "Just watch it, bud. I'm in no mood." He warned, as he trudged along grumpily wearing his spikey-faced complexion. Apparently, leaping through an inter-dimensional portal had caused Doyle to involuntarily morph, and at the moment, he was unable to switch back. Furthermore, he had no way of knowing whether it was Pylea itself keeping him in his demon form, or if it was the neurological problems he'd been battling for months. Either way, he wasn't pleased by the turn of events, and if it weren't for the fact that he was desperate to find Cordelia, he'd probably be looking for the closest cave to hide in right about now. "What's say we pick up the pace a bit, yeah?"

"I truly don't believe it was Doyle's fault." Wesley piped in, mercifully coming to Doyle's defense as they proceeded onward at a slightly increased speed. "If the book's purpose is to open portals _to_ Pylea, it would serve no function here _in_ Pylea. As a result, I have to assume it only exists in our dimension."

"Well, that's just dandy." Lorne replied sarcastically. "Hey, Doyle, ol' buddy, ol' pal, you didn't happen to bring that trusty flask of yours along for the ride, did you?"

Doyle only glared back in reply. As it so happened, he didn't have the flask, but he was really wishing he did. If any demon needed a drink, it was him.

Angel slapped a hand on Lorne's shoulder, still overly chipper. "I'm sure we'll find a way back. I mean, Gunn's probably got the book—maybe he'll figure out how to open another portal for us."

"Somehow I don't see that happening." Lorne answered. "No offense to the big guy, but, y'know… _psychic_."

"Is that the village up ahead?" Wesley inquired, taking in the small rows of cottages that appeared in the near distance as they came to the edge of the dense woods. They'd walked several miles at least, leaving Angel's car hidden beneath some brush. Hopefully, it wouldn't be discovered by any natives. From what Lorne had described, Pylea was stuck in the middle ages, so a modern vehicle, such as a convertible, really wouldn't blend. Not only that, but they apparently didn't take very kindly to foreigners. Which is why they were all in firm agreement that finding Cordelia and getting out of the village had to be done as quickly and discreetly as possible.

"That's it alright. Home sweet hell." Lorne answered, turning to glance at Wesley over his shoulder. "Now, just remember, this place isn't human-friendly, so I'll have to make the approach alone. You should all stay out of sight. Doyle, stick with the spikes—you're far less likely to get beaten to death with a stick looking like that. I'll go knock on, my old chum, Blix's place. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to see me—"

"TRAITOR!"

A voice from up ahead cut off Lorne's words and caused him—and the three men following him—to stop short on the path entering the village proper. Snapping his head around to see the angry-looking Pylean standing in the road, Lorne immediately began to back track, stepping on the tips of Angel's shoes. An angry finger was pointed accusatorily in their direction, accompanied by a booming voice which would undoubtedly attract unwanted attention. So much for discretion.

"Blix?!" Lorne addressed the angry demon up ahead.

"Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok clan—you are a deserter! A betrayer!" Blix responded indignantly.

"So much for the thrilled theory." Lorne mumbled, lifting his arms in surrender. "I think this is the part where we all start running for our lives."

"I think you're quite right." Wesley agreed, eyeballing the other angry-looking demons who were rushing to see what the hubbub was about. Many of them looked like Landok—which was to say, ready for a fight.

Lorne led the way quite speedily, racing through a rear alley, keeping to the outskirts of the village; he seemed to know where he was going—and where he intended to go. Angel, Doyle and Wesley remained on his heels, in that order. Wesley, in particular, seemed to have difficulty keeping up with the three demons ahead of him, and as Doyle ran, he was not only thankful, for once, that he had a boost of demon speed and stamina, but he actually began to worry that his fully-human compatriot would be their downfall.

As it turned out, he didn't have to worry about Wesley. Not when he found himself slamming headlong into Angel's back as the vampire came up short. Doyle looked around frantically, realizing that Lorne had stopped first, and for good reason.

They were surrounded on all sides, not only by villagers, but also by what appeared to be decorated guards. Heavily armored, heavily armed.

"What now?!" Doyle shouted to Angel, as he moved into a back-to-back position with his vampire friend. "Do we fight?"

"Is anyone else wishing we hadn't insisted Gunn stay behind?" Wesley noted with a heavy gulp.

"I know I am." Lorne answered worriedly, as the surrounding warriors eclipsed them from all sides of the open square where they now found themselves trapped.

"We fight!" Angel hollered, as he swiftly spun forward to kick a sword out of one of the approaching warriors.

Despite his fear that fighting may, in fact, be futile, due to the sheer numbers they were facing, Doyle dutifully jumped into action, drawing on his demon strength, as well as his desire to find Cordelia, to put up a fairly impressive offense. Even Wesley seemed to step up his fighting game, and for a few minutes there, Doyle could've sworn they were actually going to win…

Until approximately five minutes thereafter, when they had so clearly lost. And instead of heading off on their rescue mission, Lorne, Angel, Doyle and Wesley knelt side-by-side, each one bound at the wrists and ankles. There were glum faces all around, and for good reason.

"Welcome to Pylea, boys." Lorne muttered from his place in the dirt. "There are not enough I-told-you-so's in the universe."

They all looked up as a horse-drawn chariot made its way into the plaza and halted right before them. An imposing demon with a distinct air of authority was eyeing them warily as he slowly dismounted, and paced up the line of prisoners, starting with Wesley and ending with Lorne.

"Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok clan." The imposing figure addressed the bound Pylean at his feet.

"Constable Narwek." Lorne replied easily, clearly trying to keep his voice much lighter than it probably felt. "Lovely to see you again. So, how've you been?"

"Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok clan, you have returned. Why?" Constable Narwek demanded without the slightest hint of amusement. Doyle had to wonder if the lack of sense of humor was directly correlated with the lack of booze in this place.

Lorne laughed nervously up at the unfriendly face hovering above him. "Actually, I've been asking myself that very same question."

"Who are these cow-scum? You are all dressed… very _strangely_." Narwek reached down and yanked on the collar of Doyle's brown leather jacket, pulling Doyle into a standing position in the process, so he could scrutinize much closer. "And this one… you are an odd-looking demon." The Constable said derisively. He took a big whiff of Doyle's hair, and then dropped him back down to the ground in disgust. " _Tainted!_ Does your kind have no shame? Willing to lie with a beast?!"

"Hey!" Doyle objected as he tried to right himself back into a kneeling position, which was made difficult by his restraints. Angel looked like he wanted to help, but seeing how he, too, was restrained, there wasn't much he could do but offer a sympathetic look. "Don't you be bringing my mother into this!"

"I'm fairly certain it's your father he's referring to." Wesley mumbled in response to Doyle's objections.

"Silence, cow-scum!" Constable Narwek bellowed, giving Doyle a swift kick in the gut, which sent him crumbling forward as the wind was forcefully expelled from his lungs.

"They're not cow-scum!" Lorne interjected from his place on the other side of Angel, daring to raise his voice to pull the Constable's focus away from Doyle. "They're humans and they're my friends."

"Cows are not friends." Narwek replied disdainfully. "They are creatures of labor. Beasts of burden… No more! I do not know where you have been, Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok clan, but it is _clear_ that you have abandoned the teachings of your people." Narwek turned to the bucket-helmeted Warriors that stood by patiently waiting for instruction. "Take him away. We will begin interrogations immediately."

Lorne turned his fearful eyes toward his comrades one-by-one, settling them on Doyle, in particular. There was a flicker of his wide red iris then, as if he was recognizing something that Doyle himself wasn't even aware was happening.

And then it did happen.

"Aaaaaaarrrrrggggghhhh!" Doyle howled as the figurative anvil of a vision slammed into his brain. He had barely righted himself from the kick to the gut, but now he face-planted straight forward into the dirt, unable to even try and catch himself due to his restraints. He writhed helplessly as the Powers That Be rendered him incapacitated. The images he saw were violent, brutal, painful… and then… over. Just as quickly as they had begun. Leaving behind only a dull vibration in his skull.

He had rolled over onto his back and now found himself staring straight up at the perturbed face of Constable Narwek. Doyle blinked rapidly and turned his head to the side to spit, trying to clear the dirt from his eyes and lips. His hands were still bound underneath him, which made moving difficult.

"What is the meaning of this?" Constable Narwek demanded. "Has the beast-blood in your veins rendered you infirm?"

Spitting out one final chunk of dirt, Doyle wrinkled his spikey brow up at the demon looming over him. "I'll have y'know, there's nothing infirm about me, bud!" Doyle sputtered upward, gawkily trying to push himself into an upright sitting position. "There are plenty o' women who can attest to that."

"He's cursed!" Lorne yelped, causing Doyle to twist his head confusedly toward the demon he thought was his friend. Angel and Wesley, too, were looking at Lorne as if he'd lost his mind, which maybe he had. Maybe this blast from the past was a little too much for him. "He gets visions from the higher powers. Just ask him! Ask him what he saw!"

Narwek held up a hand to halt the two guards who had been about to lift Lorne off the ground and take him away. "You're saying… he is cursed with the pure sight?" The Constable questioned, looking first at Lorne and then back down at Doyle with a little more curiosity than before. "This half- _beast_?"

"Go ahead, Doyle." Lorne encouraged. "Tell the nice Constable here what you saw."

Doyle was still staring at Lorne in confused disbelief, but seeing how he didn't really have any other choice in the matter, he shared the images that had just been hammered into his brain. "Ah… it's one o' those Drokken things." He described, dropping his eyes away from Lorne and eventually letting them travel back up to the face of Narwek. "It's about to attack one of your villagers. Near the forest—ah… there's a big, yellow rock nearby. But it's about to happen any minute now, so you're really gonna have to haul ass if ya wanna have a chance of stopping it."

Narwek's eyes grew wide as he took a step away from Doyle, his disdain and curiosity giving way to something more like… fascination. He didn't seem to be in a terrible rush to stop anything, but after an extended moment of dumbfounded scrutiny, the Constable turned to the guards on his left, and gestured for them to head out of the village. "Go. See if what this filthy creature speaks is true." He then turned to address those on his right, snapping his fingers in Doyle's direction. "You, take him to the Trombli at once. If he is, indeed, cursed with the sight, they will want to commence the tests."

"The tests?" Doyle choked worriedly, as several of the guards lifted him off the ground and proceeded to carry him away from the others. "What kinda tests are we talkin' here? 'Cause I was always better at _giving_ tests than taking 'em—maybe we could switch, yeah?"

He struggled a little, but knew it would ultimately be pointless with the restraints and the multiple demon guards carrying him away. He was, however, able to cast one final panicked glance toward his friends and saw that Angel had tried to leap forward to aid Doyle, only to be knocked backward by a guard. Wesley looked about ready to lose his lunch, while Lorne seemed a little more hopeful than the other two, if not entirely so.

Narwek still stood in place before the other three kneeling figures, and he made one final gesture to the guards who were lined up behind them. "For the crime of assault – against those judged to be your betters – you are to be detained until that time when proper sentencing can commence."

After making that proclamation, Narwek turned on his heel and returned to his chariot, lifting the reins to signal the horses into motion. In his wake, his men followed his order, lifting Lorne, Angel and Wesley and corralling them into the back of a beat up wooden wagon that had been pulled through the crowd by a half-dozen, dirty humans dressed in burlap sacks. None of them spoke; not one of them so much as lifted their heads.

"What was all that curse stuff about?" Angel demanded of Lorne, after the three prisoners landed in a heap in the back of the straw-filled wagon, which slowly started to rumble forward, dragged along by the human-slaves. "What are they gonna do with Doyle?"

"Don't worry, they're not gonna kill him." Lorne replied, and then a little less confident. "At least, I don't _think_ they'll kill him. I'm not real clear on what that whole testing thing entails."

"But, you wanted them to know that he had visions." Wesley noted. "Why?"

"My people are superstitious." Lorne explained, his voice vibrating with the movement of the wagon. "There are these priests—the Covenant of Trombli. You may have heard ol' Narwek back there mention them. Anyway, they have this whole prophecy thing about a Messiah with a direct link to the Powers That Be, yada yada yada. It's hogwash, believe me. But, I'm guessing if they think Doyle could be their Messiah, they won't kill him… Probably… It's a theory anyway."

"And what about the rest of us?" Angel wondered unhappily as the cart slowly chugged along the path leading through the village, to what appeared to be a large, stone fortress beyond. "What's your theory there?"

"Oh, the rest of us…" Lorne replied matter-of-factly. "… are probably doomed."

 _Gulp._

* * *

Wesley and Angel were yanked out of the back of yet another wagon, and prodded forward to enter the gargantuan wrought iron gate before them. A gate that led to the castle, where apparently, the newly crowned ruler of Pylea requested they be brought for personal sentencing.

That didn't sound promising.

"How long do you suppose we've been imprisoned?" Wesley mumbled to Angel, as they were continuously poked in the rear, and made to keep moving forward toward a long, stone hallway. "Weeks? Months?"

"Maybe a little more than a day." Angel replied succinctly. "Judging by the location of the suns overhead."

"That presumes they have an earth-like cycle here." Wesley griped as his stomach growled loudly. "I can't remember the last time I've eaten."

"You should've packed a snack." Angel grunted back under his breath, coming up short as Lorne was pushed down the hallway opposite them.

"Boy, am I happy to see you guys!" He said faux-jovially. "And so much less dead than expected."

"Lorne, you're alright." Wesley noted, with some semblance of relief.

"Well, I don't know about _alright_ … if that whole thousand-questions, dirty glare, film noir thing went on any longer, I'd probably have died of boredom." Lorne quipped. "I'm guessing you haven't seen our little Irish friend any time recently? Or, Cordelia, for that matter?"

"We've been in a cell this whole time. Just the two of us. We didn't even see the light of day until now." Angel answered, sounding rather disgruntled. "They should really think about putting a few windows in those things."

"I'll be sure to mention it in the next round of interrogations." Lorne said dryly.

Constable Narwek came stomping down the corridor, stepping between Angel, Wesley and Lorne, and addressing the latter with contempt. "Silence. Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok clan, you and the cow-trash are not to speak."

"Ah, de-bunch your panties, Narwek." Lorne replied cheekily.

" _You_ are a traitor to your home. You abandoned your life-giver, betrayed your people and now you consort with these _animals_. You deserve a slow death."

"Well, aren't you going to be sorely disappointed when I get a quick one instead." Lorne sassed back at the Constable, keeping up his air of false bravado despite the rather grave circumstances.

Narwek merely frowned in reply, clearly displeased by Lorne's irreverence and looking very much like he'd prefer to be the one to do the slow killing. Instead, he moved aside, drawing all eyes to the large double-doors that undoubtedly led to a throne room of some sort.

"It is the decree of the venerable monarch of Pylea, General of the Ravenous Legion, Eater of Our Enemy's Flesh, Prelate of the Sacrificial Blood Rites, and Sovereign Proconsul of Death, that you be brought forth for sentencing." Narwek announced in an official manner, as the guards slowly opened the gargantuan doors, leading to the cavernous room beyond.

Heads bowed, the three of them hobbled toward their doom, prodded by the guards. Still securely shackled, they raised their heads to the demonic ruler who was seated on the elevated throne at the far end of the grandiose room, being fanned by numerous courtiers, and wearing a shimmering golden crown upon his spikey-faced head.

"Doyle?" Angel addressed his best friend in shocked disbelief.

"Hey, guys." Doyle greeted them with a wave and a wide grin plastered across his demon-face.


	63. Through the Looking Glass, Pt 1

**"Through the Looking Glass," Part I**

"They decided to make me their ruler!" Doyle exclaimed happily, opening his arms wide to reveal his shimmering gold-threaded suit that looked like something the maharaja would wear, if the maharaja was performing a nightly show in Vegas. "It's Prince Doyle now."

"Prince Doyle?" Wesley asked dumbfounded.

"Yeah, the visions happen to be a pretty big deal 'round here." Doyle explained with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And as it turns out, everyone's real relieved I'm half- _demon_. A little less thrilled with the human part, though."

"That's Pylea for you alright." Lorne confirmed.

"Is that why you're still wearing…?" Angel pointed to his own face, indicating that Doyle was still wearing a face full of spikes.

"Ah, yeah. I was stuck for a while there, on account of our portal-hopping, but once they started in with the hot pokers, I became unstuck real fast." Doyle explained with a shrug. "Gotta say, demon or human—those things hurt like ya wouldn't believe!"

"I believe." Angel commiserated, having had his own experiences with hot pokers over the centuries, for better and for worse.

"So, the main condition o' this whole monarchy thing is I have to wear the spikes when making public appearances and all that. I figured it's the least I can do while I'm getting the royal treatment, yeah? Plus, I gotta say, the therapeutic side o' being in demon face for this long is really starting to pay off. I'm feelin' better than ever… ah, almost. I mean, the burns have still gotta heal a bit more." Doyle popped up out of the ornate throne, rubbing at his bottom. He paused and turned toward one of the scantily clad servants who was diligently fanning him with an array of plumage. "Ah, y'think ya could be a doll and 'round up a few more pillows for this thing?"

"Well, this is fantastic news!" Wesley said excitedly from the floor, several steps below where Doyle stood. His eyes slowly trailed from Doyle over to an elaborate buffet against the wall. He licked his lips hungrily and held up his shackled wrists. "I don't suppose you could…?"

"Right. Sorry, mate. I forgot all about that." Doyle said with an apologetic chuckle as he hopped down the few steps to join his friends in the center of the room, motioning to the guards on his way. "These prisoners are released—all charges dropped."

The reaction from the guards was prompt, if not quite as enthusiastic as Doyle's order was given. Nevertheless, they obediently moved forward, unlocking and removing the shackles from Angel, Wesley and Lorne, and then moving back to their places against the wall. Wesley was barely out of his shackles before sprinting toward the buffet table to begin shoving tasty morsels into his face greedily.

Narwek stood by the wide open doors of the throne room, wearing a face of undisguised repulsion. "Your Majesty, I must protest. To allow dangerous criminals, particularly those of cow-blood, to roam free—"

"Hey, bud. That's enough outta you." Doyle interrupted, pointing a finger of warning in the Constable's direction. "These cows are with me… I mean, that'll be all for now, Constable. Ya have your orders—your full attention should be on that other matter we discussed."

Narwek gave a heavy, disapproving sigh, but bowed to Doyle reverently, clicking his heels together and about-facing his way out the front doors, with the other guards following in line behind him.

"That was pretty good, huh?" Doyle asked, turning to Angel and Lorne with a pleased expression. "Y'know, I think I'm really getting the hang of this whole monarchy thing."

"That other matter?" Lorne inquired curiously, watching as the fierce Constable was put in his place and sent packing. "What would that be exactly? Please tell me it rhymes with schmortal"

"That would be looking for Cordelia, o'course." Doyle clarified. "Y'think I'd be this calm if I didn't have an entire royal army out there looking for her right now? Not a chance, bud."

"You trust them not to hurt her?" Angel asked skeptically, eyeing Doyle with concern.

"I trust they'll follow my very specific orders, yeah." Doyle responded. "I'm their supreme ruler, after all. And I made it _real_ clear that I want her brought here unharmed—ah, but I might've forgot to clarify the unshackled bit… that could be a problem."

"How will they know when they've found her?" Angel wondered. "I get the feeling they don't really _look_ at humans—they probably all look the same to them."

"I just told 'em to look for an abnormally chatty female in unusual clothes." Doyle explained. "Cordy's never really been one for the whole submission thing, yeah? I'm thinking she probably stands out."

"That's what worries me." Angel mumbled in reply.

"Well, I admit, this is even better than I'd hoped." Lorne said happily, sauntering over to the table of food to pluck a few grapes from a tray and pop them into his mouth. Wesley, on the other hand, was still grabbing things by the fistful, his cheeks puffed outward with food he was still trying to chew. "I mean, I was just hoping the curse would keep them from killing you, but they really swallowed the Messiah thing hook, line and sinker."

"Yeah, well, after the hot poker bit, it got much better." Doyle agreed, rubbing his side to test the largest of his burn marks, which caused him to wince at the pain. "I'd say that was pretty good thinking on your part."

"We might just survive this place, yet." Wesley's nearly unintelligible words came out around his giant mouthful of food.

"Yeah, and what's more, those priest guys have a room full o' weird-looking books not unlike the one that brought us here. How much ya wanna bet our ride home's in there somewhere?" Doyle replied with an easy grin.

"The news keeps getting better and better." Lorne said with moderate enthusiasm, dipping his finger into a creamy confectionary and licking it. "Mmmm, that's not bad... but, only because I won't be eating it for the rest of my natural born life. I prefer that little French bakery in Larchmont. Meringues to die for."

Wesley finally finished chewing his mouthful of food and swallowed hard, speaking clearly this time. "Can you get me into the room?"

"Ya do get the whole supreme ruler thing, yeah?" Doyle asked rhetorically. "I can get ya whatever ya want."

"Wonderful." Wesley enthused, wiping the crumbs off his hands. "In the meantime, perhaps, Lorne, you should search for hot spots? That way we'll be prepared to leave as soon as we find Cordelia and the book."

"And Fred." Doyle reminded Wesley. "We should probably pick 'er up while we're here."

"Fred?" Wesley repeated. "The librarian, you mean? Are we certain she's… alive?"

"I am." Doyle confirmed, tapping on the side of his head. He didn't elaborate, knowing that Wesley would simply assume Doyle knew this from his most recent vision, rather than any other visions he'd had in the past—most specifically the one he'd had of their future that included Fred.

"Alright, yes. Of course." Wesley agreed, turning back to Angel and Lorne. "Do keep your eye out for the librarian—in fact, you should probably find Landok. He may be of help locating the hot spot as well as the girl. Angel, you should go with Lorne."

"You want me to go out there and walk around in the hot sun all day?" Angel asked, a wide smile rapidly spreading across his face. "Sounds like a great plan, boss!"

Lorne plucked one final grape off the vine, popped it in his mouth and sauntered over to Angel to pat him on the shoulder. "Oh, you might be a whole lot less enthusiastic about this mission, once I introduce you to my family."

Doyle watched with amusement as Angel practically skipped out the door of the throne room, with Lorne shuffling more reluctantly behind the eager vampire. Wesley wiped a smudge of cream from his upper lip, and motioned Doyle toward the door as well. "Shall we make our way to the books?"

Hesitating, Doyle looked back at the empty throne which now had additional pillows piled on it, just as he'd requested. He turned back to see Wesley's hopeful face. "Yeah, I'll get the priests to show ya the way… I'm thinking I should probably stay here." He gave a little shrug. "I'm guessing Cordy's gonna be overjoyed to see a friendly face when she arrives. And, I'd be lying if I said I didn't want that face to be mine."

* * *

"Don't you think I should just wait outside? I'm not really dressed to meet this demon Prince guy—I mean, just look at this burlap sack of mine, stained right through with demon poo. If I'd known we were coming to a castle, I would've changed before we left the farm. Actually, that's a lie because I don't have another sack. Maybe we should go get me another sack?"

Cordelia stumbled down the long stone hallway, trying to keep up with her "master," Vakma, who had apparently been summoned to the castle by the crowned Prince of Pylea with orders to bring along any newly acquired female cows. Unfortunately, as degrading as it was, Cordelia fit that description in this dimension, and she could only imagine what the crowned Prince planned to do with her once she was presented to him—she had a feeling it would be just as debasing as everything else she'd been forced to do since falling through that godforsaken portal. Hunted, sold and made to do manual labor with not even the barest of human rights she was accustomed to on Earth. Worst of all, she was forced to wear a an electrified collar that would decapitate her should she try and make a run for it.

Needless to say, she'd become a relatively dutiful little cow over the past couple of days, which made her long for the regular, run-of-the-mill degradation of being treated like a piece of meat on a commercial set. Yeah, those were the days...

"Silence, cow!" Vakma shouted, whirling toward Cordelia wagging a warning finger. They had come to an abrupt stop outside of a large set of arched wooden doors that had started to swing open as they made their approach. "You will behave in the presence of the supreme ruler, or I'll have that tongue taken out of your head!"

It was then that Cordelia clamped her mouth tightly shut. She really wasn't about to tempt her demonic master into making good on that threat, nor did she enjoy the repeated shocks she'd been receiving through her collar whenever she got too smart-mouthed.

Taking Cordelia roughly by the upper arm, Vakma yanked her forward through the open doors, as a guard made an announcement from the corner of the room.

"The venerable monarch of Pylea, General of the Ravenous Legion, Eater of Our Enemy's Flesh, Prelate of the Sacrificial Blood Rites, and Sovereign Proconsul of Death will see you now, Vakma of the Killjin clan. Come forth and present your cow for inspection."

Cordelia sighed, as she dropped her head forward to try and cover her dirty face, keeping her eyes firmly focused on the ornately tiled floor of the throne room. Vakma bowed deeply and forced Cordelia into a kneeling position. With a small "oomph," her knees hit the hard floor. She kept her head bowed reverently, not that she cared what some demon Prince thought of her, but she really didn't want to—

"Cordy?!" A familiar Irish-accented voice said excitedly from the far end of the room, causing her head to abruptly shoot upward. "Oh, thank God!"

It was Doyle—sporting his spikes, but undoubtedly him—wearing a golden crown and sitting on a lavish wooden throne full of plush-looking pillows. He was being diligently fanned by a cluster of scantily clad human slave-women, and his clothes looked to be threaded with precious metals and woven of silk. Of course, Doyle being Doyle, he didn't stay seated upon seeing Cordelia. Rather, he leapt out of the throne, bolted down the platform steps and rushed toward her, his red demon eyes filled with obvious joy and relief to have her there.

"Doyle?" She uttered back in confused awe, as she slowly pushed herself clumsily back up to her feet, trying to wrap her brain around the strange picture she was seeing before her. "What the hell?"

He was about to throw his arms around her in a bear hug, and even though she was confused she reflexively stepped forward to accept—which is when two spears clanked down in front of Cordelia, cutting the two of them off from being able to make contact.

"What the _hell_?!" She repeated, in anger this time, shooting a dirty look at each of the guards who'd nearly taken off her nose with their sharp spears.

"Hey!" Doyle objected as well, coming up short on the other side of the spears and glaring at the guards who'd intercepted their joyful reunion. "This is the woman I've been looking for. She's with me, yeah? Stand down… _please_?"

"Your Majesty…" A demon stepped forward who was adorned in a thick red robe. He looked almost priest-like, and he had a distinct air of authority, despite addressing Doyle as royalty.

"Your Majesty?" Cordelia echoed, her disbelief etched visibly across her face.

"This beast is unclean." The priest continued, disregarding Cordelia as a subhuman entity. "She is covered in filth."

"Yeah, well, you try shoveling demon-horse poo for two days and see how clean you are, buddy." Cordelia sassed back at the priest-guy, forgetting that she was supposed to be minding her tongue, and really not caring at the moment, since it appeared very much like Doyle was in charge—although, how or why he had come to be in charge was a big question.

"Hush, cow!" Vakma shouted, raising her little electronic shock-device and aiming it toward Cordelia. "Bad cow!"

"Hey, hey, stop it right there!" Doyle ordered, which caused Vakma to freeze in place, her thumb hovering over the button that would send a shock through Cordelia's collar and straight down her spinal column. "There'll be no more o' that bad cow stuff—not now, not ever. Cordelia, here, is under my protection, ya hear? And you…" He said turning back to the guards who were blocking his path. "… back off. All of ya."

The guards obediently stepped back, removing their spears and allowing Doyle to move closer to Cordelia, which is exactly what he did. Although, he did seem to hesitate as he stepped into her personal space, probably catching a whiff of her this time. A faint look of repulsion crossed his face, but it quickly disappeared and was replaced with the more familiar look of earnestness she was accustomed to seeing from him. He didn't move to hug her, but he did reach out to gently lift her chin and take a closer look at her dirt-caked face. "Are ya okay, darlin'?" He asked with concern. "Did they hurt ya?"

"No, I am not okay, Doyle! Do I look okay?! Do I _smell_ okay?!" She replied irritably, knocking his hand away from her face and narrowing her eyes at his spikey demon face, suddenly feeling very annoyed with the fact that he was standing in front of her well-dressed and smelling better than he ever had and she was anything _but_. "That shoveling demon poo thing—not a metaphor. That's _actually_ what I've been doing for two days. Without a shower or any other kind of soap-related activity. And this thing?" She said reaching up to indicate the metal shock collar she was sporting. "It isn't my idea of a wacky-fun alternate dimension fashion statement! Miss Twitchy-trigger-finger kills a few thousand brain cells every time she doesn't like what I have to say. Which is pretty much every time I open my mouth!"

Doyle winced as he noted the redness of Cordelia's flesh beneath the collar. He gestured to the closest guard and pointed toward the offensive gadget. "Get this thing offa her. Right now."

The guard hesitated this time, looking at the head priest for confirmation that he should follow this order. The demon priest sighed reluctantly, but gave a subtle little nod and turned to address Vakma. "Shall we compensate Vakma of the Killjin clan for her most generous gift, your Majesty?"

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Doyle replied dismissively. "Just get the collar off, yeah?"

The head priest nodded again, and this time Vakma bowed to Doyle and handed the electronic trigger to one of the guards, who then stepped forward and removed Cordelia's collar.

"Finally." Cordelia sighed in relief, reaching up to massage her irritated flesh. She then turned back to the bathed, rested and finely-clothed half-demon standing before her, arching a skeptical brow. "So, let me get this straight? They treat me like an animal, while you get a crown and a throne and whole bunch of royal chippies falling all over you?" Frowning as she waved toward the slave girls scattered behind the throne, waiting to continue their sole task of fanning Doyle. "What kind of bizzaro world is this where _you're_ the Prince and _I'm_ Cinderella's dirtier, stinkier counterpart, huh?!"

"It's a hell dimension." Doyle answered with a shrug and then ventured a friendly wink to lighten the mood. "And, don't worry, love, you're still royalty to me."

"A lot of good that did me while I was sleeping in a pile of hay!" She snapped back, and then reached over her shoulder to give herself a good scratch. "I think I have a rash."

Doyle's brow furrowed in concern, and he turned back to the head priest, gesturing toward the filth-covered Cordelia. "Silas, I want my friend here to have the best accommodations in the castle. Bath, spa treatment, clean clothes. Maybe some calamine lotion, if you've got that sorta thing?"

"I am not familiar with this lotion you speak of." The head priest, now identified as Silas, responded. "But there is a trough she can bathe in with the other cows."

"I am so over being called a cow." Cordelia grumbled through gritted teeth.

"Ah… y'know what? I think I'll just bring her to my chambers, then." Doyle amended. "Just make sure some clean clothes are brought there, yeah?"

"It shall be done, your Majesty." Silas said with a slight bow, taking his leave of the throne room. Several of the guards followed at his heels dutifully.

"I am never going to get used to that Majesty thing." Cordelia remarked, pointing toward the empty spot previously occupied by Silas. "Are Angel and the others here, too? Did they get made into a Duke, a Knight and a court jester, while I got tossed into the pig pen?"

"The others are here, yeah." Doyle confirmed, with a deep sigh. "None of 'em were treated much better than you, I'm afraid." Then, after a moment of thought. "Which one would be the court jester, d'ya think?"

She didn't reply, instead lifting her dirty hands and wrinkling her nose at her fingers, which were currently brown. "Ugh, my nails are ruined. There isn't enough soap in this dimension _and_ the next."

"Well, ya might as well start with what's in my room. It's this way." Doyle said as he gestured for her to follow him to the opposite end of the throne room, where a door to the residential wing of the castle was located. He waggled his eyebrows teasingly as he tossed a wisecrack over his shoulder. "What's say we get ya outta those clothes, darlin'?"

"Oh, you wish." She huffed, as she stomped along behind him, shooting death glares at all the demon faces that they passed by. "I'll definitely be getting out of this sack, but you won't be getting a peep show, mister. The demons in this place may be delusional enough to worship you, but I'm certainly not—wait, why _are_ they delusional enough to worship you?"

"It's the visions." Doyle explained easily as he opened the door to the rear hallway and held it open for her to pass. "They think I'm some sorta Messiah—who am I to argue?"

"And, let me guess, they prefer the porcupine look." She said pointing toward his demon visage. "So, now you're all yay-demon-face?"

"Ah… yeah." He agreed with a semi-embarrassed nod. "Although, I wouldn't exactly say _yay_ so much as _eh_."

"Typical." She remarked with a shake of her head as she proceeded through the doorway and in the direction Doyle had indicated. "Back home you'll let yourself get pummeled into the floorboards rather than wear the spikes, but throw in a crown and a harem and you're miraculously well-adjusted."

"There's no harem." Doyle argued, following on her heels. "But it's a really nice crown, yeah?"


	64. Through the Looking Glass, Pt 2

**"Through the Looking Glass," Part II**

Doyle opened the door to the musty, book-lined room, and found Wesley hunched over a table staring at the spines of several books he had lined up in a row, crinkling his brow and mumbling to himself like a madman.

"How's it going in here, bud?" Doyle asked, causing Wesley's head to shoot up in surprise.

"Oh, Doyle. You startled me." Wesley said, yanking off his glasses and hastily wiping them on his shirt sleeve, which didn't look clean enough to be of much use. "It's, well… the good news is the language resembles some other demonic languages I'm familiar with—I am able to read more of it than I thought I would." There was a note in Wesley's voice that made it sound like good news wasn't all he had to offer, but he made no attempt to elaborate as he continued to clean—or further dirty—his spectacles.

"That sounds promising." Doyle agreed, moving further into the room to take in the rows upon rows of books that lined the walls—they didn't smell any better than the ones in the collection back home. This was definitely Wesley's kind of place. "I've got some good news myself—they found Cordy. She's here, safe and sound. Not thrilled by her previous accommodations, but nothing a long soak in the royal tub can't fix."

"That is a relief." Wesley enthused, albeit still somewhat distractedly. "I'm guessing it was the joyful reunion you'd hoped for."

"Ah… y'know Cordy. She's pretty pissed that she got called a cow for two days while I got made king o' the castle." Doyle let out a dry chuckle. "I'm sure the joy's buried somewhere in there. Deep, deep down. Probably under all the demon poo."

A faint look of puzzlement crossed Wesley's face at that comment. He placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, squinted through them and then turned back to the books stacked side-by-side on the table, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully.

Doyle pointed at the upright books and arched a brow at Wesley. "Helps if ya open 'em, yeah?"

"Oh, um… yes." Wesley replied, although he continued to stare at the spines of the books as if they had mesmerized him into a trance.

"Ya wanna tell me the bad news now?" Doyle posited. "Ya don't have much in the way of a poker face there, Wes."

Wesley looked up at Doyle for a long moment, before taking a deep breath and turning back to the spines of the three upright books. "Well, I don't know for certain what the books are saying. It will take me quite a while to decipher anything of meaning…"

"Giving up isn't exactly an option." Doyle reminded him, once again gesturing to the closed books. "Not if we ever wanna see the Hyperion again, not to mention all the other Earthly pleasures that can only be found on _Earth_. Ya want me to ask Silas and the other priests to help with the translation? I can do that."

"I doubt that would be wise." Wesley responded hurriedly, a frown settling onto his face. "You see, the holy books are written in Trionic. All three books are needed to make sense of the text." He motioned toward the animal heads engraved on the spines of the books, his finger running across them as he continued speaking. "I couldn't help but notice that they're labeled… wolf… ram… and hart."

Doyle leaned closer to see the etchings for himself. Sure enough, the fearsome face of a wolf, the boldly horned ram and the steadfast hart. "Wolfram and Hart." Doyle uttered in disbelief. "I'm not one for jumping to conclusions, but I'm feelin' pretty jumpy here."

"As am I." Wesley confirmed, bracing his arms against the side of the table and hanging his head in deep concern.

"Y'thinking what I'm thinking?" Doyle wondered.

"The priests are not to be trusted." Wesley declared.

"Well, I was gonna say how screwed up it is that we travel to a whole different dimension and those bastards are still pulling the strings—but ya definitely have a point about the priests." Doyle said worriedly. Gesturing back to the row of holy books, Doyle blanched beneath his spikes. "I knew there hadda be a catch to all this—a dimension where good ol' Doyle's the Prince? Nah, man, I've never been _this_ lucky!"

Wesley's eyes wandered down to the floor, where he shuffled his feet apprehensively. "While I don't know for certain, I think it's rather safe to assume the prophesied path of the cursed one is not one you'll wish to take."

Doyle took that in and then moved for the door, all at once. "I'm thinking I go grab Cordy and we make a break for it. Sound like a plan?"

"Indeed." Wesley agreed. "The sooner we are away from the castle, the better." He began scooping the Trionic into his arms, but quickly realized all three books would be too heavy for one man to carry. He settled for taking the "Wolf" book from the pile and pointed to the other two left behind on the table. "I'll need you and Cordelia to take the other books with you—can you manage?"

"Yeah, we'll circle back for 'em." Doyle agreed.

Wesley pushed his glasses higher on his nose, as he collected himself and began to move toward the exit. "I'll take the sewage tunnels to avoid detection—you two best do the same. I very much doubt you'll be allowed to leave the castle without an armed escort otherwise."

"Sewage tunnels—Cordy's just gonna love that." Doyle grumbled, as he reluctantly nodded to Wesley and made haste to retrieve a freshly bathed Cordelia from his chambers and sell her on the idea of plunking herself head first into raw sewage.

Oh, yeah, that was going to go over _fabulously_.

* * *

Doyle pushed the door to his chambers open, and felt his jaw drop nearly to the floor as he took in the vision before him.

And it was a vision, alright.

Cordelia was standing there in the center of the spacious room wearing both a palace slave outfit and an accompanying scowl. She was tapping her foot impatiently and had her hands settled sassily on her nearly-bare hips as she arched a challenging brow at him. "Do I have you to thank for this?"

There were no immediate words coming to Doyle's open lips as he proceeded to run his eyes up and down, drinking in her soft curves beneath the scarce material. Despite the fact that the demon face was foreign enough to her that it might mask some of his ogling, he reflexively shook it off, preferring to admire her with his human eyes.

This was one of those moments that was almost ripped right out of a fantasy—Cordelia, putting Princess Leia and her gold bikini to shame. Not even if he were to rub a magic lamp, would Doyle have been lucky enough to get this particular spectacle, and as a result, he felt the blood run faster and hotter in his veins. "You, ah… wow." He said dumbly, continuing to enjoy the view, even as a disgruntled Cordelia began stomping toward him.

"Don't say a word!" She snapped at him, wagging a warning finger.

But it was too late because he'd already been halfway through the instinctive words. "Ya look _amazing_."

Her eyes widened at his statement, and although it appeared that anger was her default setting at the moment, she appeared to soften at the compliment. Taking a beat, she slowly digested what he'd said. Then, looking down at herself, she shrugged in a way that made it clear she wasn't going to argue that particular point. "Well, yeah. Of course, I do. But, that's not the point!" She said, transitioning back into her previous irritation. "The I-dream-of-Jeannie look might be an improvement from the burlap, but I'm still being treated like the help." She spat back at him, her eyes blazing furiously once again. "They told me—as the Prince's newly acquired cow—I'm supposed to clean your chambers!"

"Ah… well, ya don't have to do that—" Doyle began to explain, as she threw her arms in the air and paced away from him in frustration, affording him a rather lovely display of her rear.

"You bet your ass I don't have to do that!" She shouted into the empty room around them, her voice reverberating in the dome interior. Hitting her mark on the other end of the room, she turned back to pace toward Doyle once again, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction. "What did you do to get me this glorious housekeeping gig, huh? Did you tell your demon minions about the time I cleaned your rat-hole of an apartment? Because, that was supposed to be a secret you took to the grave, buster!"

Doyle raised his hands in surrender as she proceeded toward him, wielding her deathly glare and pointy finger. "Cordy, I didn't tell 'em anything about ya—" He began to object, and then backed off, thinking better of wasting time defending himself. He could beg forgiveness for sins he hadn't committed at a later time. For now, there were far more pressing issues. "Y'know what? It doesn't matter, 'cause it's time for us to be leaving. Wesley's waiting for us at the, uh… back door."

"Really?" She asked, coming up short, clearly relieved by his response. "We have a way to get home? Thank _God_. I need to schedule a manicure as soon as possible."

"Well, we don't have the portal thing worked out just yet." Doyle admitted, gently trying to angle himself so she'd move closer toward the exit. "Hopefully soon."

"Wait. Let me get this straight? We're stuck on the Planet of the Demons 'til who-knows-when, and you're _giving_ _up_ _your_ _crown_?" Cordelia exclaimed, giving him a look that clearly told him she thought he'd lost his mind. "Am I supposed to believe you prefer being badly-dressed and penniless to the pillow-lined throne and the royal chippies?"

He froze in place for a moment, his eyes darting one way and then the other as he tried to decipher if this was a trick question or not. "Ah… yeah?" He answered cautiously. "That so hard to believe?"

"More like impossible." She declared, eyeing him warily. "I mean, don't get me wrong, this place sucks in every way. But I'd much rather be in the castle with the soap and the sexy slave-girl costume, than out there shoveling demon horse poo in a burlap sack. So, why the rush to go back to being a nobody, huh? Feeling nostalgic?"

The furrow of his brow came naturally as he registered her less-than-subtle jibe, but he shook it off and focused on an explanation that would make sense to her. "For starters, I'm pretty sure the priests that run this place are evil."

"Duh." Cordelia stated smartly. "I could've told you that. Just order them _not_ to be evil, oh-supreme-ruler."

"Y'know, I'm thinking they picked the wrong person for the job, yeah?" Doyle pointed out with a nervous chuckle, yanking on the edge of his ornate collar to give himself more breathing room. "You'd have been a much better choice for this royalty bit."

"Duh squared." Cordelia agreed, rolling her eyes and finally cracking the hint of a smile. She walked closer to him and straightened his cockeyed crown. "Maybe it's time to put your spikes back on, your _worshipfulness_ , and make a few royal decrees. The first one being an abolishment of human slavery, followed closely by a noble title for yours truly. Do you think you can wrangle a Duchess-type thing? Or should I just settle for Baroness?"

"The priests work for Wolfram and Hart." Doyle added.

"What are we waiting for? Let's get the hell out of here!" Cordelia yelped, eagerly turning toward the door of the chamber, and flinging it open to flee into the long, torch-lit hallway.

Once in the stone corridor, Doyle took the lead. Not that he had a terrific sense of direction, but he definitely knew the castle better than Cordelia did, not to mention, it was instinctual to want to keep her behind him, protected from anything that may turn up around the bend—

"Your Majesty."

Doyle stopped short as he nearly ran headfirst into Silas and his abundance of thick, blood-red robes. Several of the palace guards were lined up behind the priest, assuring there'd be no quick getaway.

"Ah… hey there." Doyle stammered, not really knowing what else to say and feeling very much like he'd been caught red-handed. He stood up straight, unconsciously reaching behind him to make sure Cordelia was still close at his back. Then, he squared his shoulders and tried to give the impression that he was supposed to be standing there. "It's me—the Majesty."

"You really shouldn't be wandering the hallways looking like… _this_." Silas continued with a hint of disdain, nodding toward Doyle's current non-demon face. "The guards could mistake you for a common cow."

Doyle heard Cordelia's subtle grunt of objection at the word cow, but she wisely chose not to verbalize any of the wise-ass remarks that had no doubt popped into her head.

"Yeah, well… every now and then I need a breather from the spikes." Doyle hedged, giving Silas a nervous grin. "They can chafe."

Silas didn't look like he was terribly impressed with Doyle's answer, but aside from a subtle flicker of his pupils, there was no overt reaction from the demon priest. "I was just coming to inform you of the rebel unrest in the village. As a result, I've taken the liberty of doubling the palace guard. It is our utmost priority to see that you are well-guarded at all times, my Prince."

"At _all_ times?" Doyle echoed unhappily. He felt Cordelia's fingers dig into the silky material that hung over his back and knew that she, too, wasn't thrilled by this development. The castle was a fortress, and it was feeling very much like they were now prisoners within its walls. Probably, because they were.

"We would never forgive ourselves, should your safety be compromised." Silas affirmed. "Especially with the imminent arrival of the Groosalugg and his sisters."

"Uh huh… o'course." Doyle fumbled. "What? They were in the neighborhood?"

"The Groosalugg was summoned, your Majesty. From the scum pits of Ur. As the prophecy has foretold." Silas elaborated in an entirely businesslike fashion, as if everything he was saying made perfect sense to Doyle—which it did not. "However, since the Groosalugg himself will be unable to com-shuck with you—his sisters will be brought as an offering in his stead."

Doyle raised a finger to scratch at the side of his temple in puzzlement, accidentally bumping the side of his crown and shifting it back into the cockeyed position that Cordelia had so recently corrected. "So, ah… I'm gonna com-shuck, ya say?"

"That is correct." Silas confirmed.

"With the Groosalugg's sisters?" Doyle continued, echoing the foreign words being fed to him by the priest.

Silas raised his demon brow in a way that indicated he was scandalized. "We do hope you will only com-shuck with _one_ of the Groosalugg's sisters, your Majesty. As it would be most proper to wait until _after_ you are wed."

"Ah, so it's _that_ kinda com-shucking, then?" Doyle replied, raising his own brows in surprise and then taking a big gulp as he felt Cordelia wring the material of his shirt even tighter than she had been in the first place. On some level, he was happy to know she objected, on the other hand, if she yanked any tighter on his shirt, he might have trouble breathing.

"It is our most sacred of mating rituals." Silas answered matter-of-factly. "The cursed one must merge with the blood of the Groosalugg."

"What if he doesn't wanna boing some demon chick, huh?!" Cordelia blurted out from her place halfway behind Doyle's back, apparently unable to contain her objections to a non-verbal status any longer.

Silas barely gave Cordelia a second glance as he continued to address Doyle alone. "Shall I have this insolent beast removed from your presence, Sire?"

Cordelia huffed in anger, and gave her foot a little stomp, not making much of a case for her lack of insolence.

"No, no. I like 'em insolent." Doyle assured Silas, cheating a hurried, apologetic glance over his shoulder at Cordelia, and finally feeling the release, as she let go of his shirt and took a step back. "Just… y'know she has a valid question there. Let's say birds don't suddenly appear when I meet these slug sisters. Any chance we can skip the whole wedding bit? Just be friends?"

Silas looked nothing short of horrified by what Doyle was suggesting. "It has been foretold by our most holiest of texts that the cursed one shall restore our monarchy in full." The priest said definitively. "If no Princess is chosen, much blood will be spilled. Many horrors will unfold. The reign of Prince Doyle shall end in utter destruction."

"I'm guessing that's a no." Doyle replied with another nervous gulp of air.

"You should await your destiny in the throne room, your Majesty." Silas advised, with a small bow, gesturing toward the hallway behind him that led directly back to the throne room where Doyle had spent the better part of his day. "Of course, I must ask that you alter your appearance first." The priest paused, finally acknowledging Cordelia's presence, but only so that he could frown down at her. "You may bring your cow, if it pleases you."


	65. Through the Looking Glass, Pt 3

**"Through the Looking Glass," Part III**

Cordelia was barely moving the long feathered stick in an upward and downward motion. Her wrist had started to cramp, and she was losing most of the feeling in her fingers. All the other scantily clad women standing around her were ardently fanning the half-demon seated on the throne, as if it was an honor to do so.

If only they knew how much money he _didn't_ have in his bank account back on Earth—come to think of it, Cordelia was fairly certain Doyle didn't even have a bank account. He was a cash-under-mattress kind of guy, when he was actually in possession of cash, which was rare. Well, maybe if they knew that, they wouldn't be fanning quite so diligently.

"Keep fanning, cow!" One of the guards bellowed from behind Cordelia, giving her a sharp poke in the back to indicate she was, indeed, the cow in question who was slacking in the task she'd been assigned.

"Hey, I told ya that wasn't necessary, bud." Doyle interrupted, giving a wave to the guard to back off. It wasn't the first time he'd had to reprimand the guards for being too hard on her; and yet, for some reason his insistence that she shouldn't be fanning him at all fell on deaf ears. He leaned toward Cordelia, his demon eyes full of apologies—it never ceased to amaze Cordelia how sweet Doyle could look, even while in possession of a face full of spikes. There wasn't a sinister bone in the man's body that was for sure. "Cordy, y'know I don't want ya doin' this—"

"Your Majesty." Silas objected, from his place at the bottom of the steps. "If your cow is to remain in the throne room, she must be put to task with the others. We would, however, be more than happy to remove her."

Doyle sighed heavily, rubbing his temple in exasperation. He turned his spikey-face back to Cordelia who couldn't have worn a deeper scowl if she tried. "Maybe ya should go on back to my room, yeah?" He suggested, his red demon eyes darting apprehensively down to Silas and then back over to Cordelia, with hidden meaning behind them. "There's all that _cleaning_ needs to be done."

A loud commotion at the throne room door, drew both Cordelia and Doyle's attention. The guards were opening the doors, and Commander Narwek marched through, pausing several steps inside the vast room. "Your Majesty. I present the Groosalugg." He swept his arm out behind him, clicked his heels together and then stepped out of the way to allow a large, hairy beast to enter through the double-doors.

Cordelia took in the sight of what was obviously a creature summoned from the scum pits, and she lifted her feathered stick to begin fanning Doyle once again, more enthusiastically than before. "No, that's okay." She smirked back to him. "I think this whole monarch thing is about to bite you in the butt, and I really don't wanna miss it."

She saw the prompt downward turn of Doyle's mouth as he sat back in his throne, resigned to the unpleasantness that was sure to follow. If she hadn't had such a terrible few days herself, and wasn't still more-than-a-little annoyed at Doyle for keeping all his demon secrets from her, then she probably wouldn't be relishing in his current misfortune. As it was, this whole demon-arranged-marriage thing was pretty small potatoes compared to Cordelia's own humiliation.

The hideous beast lumbered into the room, wheezing heavily, and as it shuffled off to the side, a muscle-bound Conan the Barbarian type stepped out from behind him. "Just put those anywhere." He said to the beast, indicating the large sack that the creature had slung over its shoulder. Without missing a beat, the long-haired warrior approached Doyle's throne, kneeling at the base of the stairs. "Majesty."

Cordelia's brows rocketed skyward as she quickly realized that this handsome and very nearly human-looking male specimen was, in fact, the fearsomely described Groosalugg. Suddenly, she wasn't 100% sure she was going to like where this was going, but it made her even more resolute to stay in the throne room and see what happened next. Clearly this Groosalugg guy wasn't entirely human, if his, sharper than human teeth and completely black eyes were any indication. Perhaps his sisters would come from the demon side of his family tree… _Hopefully_ , his sisters would come from the demon side of the family tree. Because this guy? He was kind of a hottie.

The Groosalugg lifted his head to Doyle, revealing his chiseled jaw, but remained in a kneeling position of reverence. He said nothing else, and it suddenly became apparent that he was waiting for permission to stand or speak or do anything else aside from kneel before his Prince.

Catching on, Doyle shifted uncomfortably in his throne, and waved for the Groosalugg to rise. "Good to see ya." He said amicably. "Thanks for making the trip from the scum pits. Y'know, if you're feeling like ya need to get back there, don't let me keep ya. I mean, I'm sure your sisters are lovely and all…" Doyle's voice petered off, as he caught Silas' disapproving eye and remembered just who he was dealing with. "Ah… maybe just get on with it, yeah?"

"As you wish, your Majesty. I have brought my sisters as an offering to you." The Groosalugg declared proudly, smiling widely to reveal his mouthful of pointed teeth. "Each is of Pylean blood. Untouched by the males of my tribe."

"Demon virgins." Cordelia muttered under her breath, rubbing it in just a little. "You got that, right?"

"Yeah, I got that." Doyle grumped back, as the Groosalugg took several steps backward and extended his arm to the open throne room doors.

"It is an honor to present the eldest and wisest of my sisters…" The Groosalugg said, as a tall, slim dark-haired, green-skinned demon with a giant hooked nose made its way through the entryway and proceeded toward the foot of Doyle's throne platform. It appeared to be sporting… a goatee? Cordelia blinked several times, trying to determine if this supposed demon woman was actually a _woman_ at all.

"Yattaley." The Groosalugg identified her, and the manly-looking demonness gave an awkward little bow to Doyle. "Your Majesty." She said, in a voice an octave lower than that of the Groosalugg's.

Cordelia snickered. "Can't imagine how the boys managed to stay away from that one."

"Ah…" Doyle's jaw hung slightly ajar as he stared at this demon creature at the foot of his throne. "Charmed, I'm sure." He stammered, trying to cover for the panic that was no doubt rising in his chest. His demon face was harder for Cordelia to read, but she was still fairly certain she knew every thought that went through his head. And if his skin hadn't already been green in tone, he probably would've been turning that color now.

"Next, the fairest of our tribe, earning more proposals than any other female of marriageable age…" The Groosalugg announced, gesturing back toward the open double doors. "Trizzabett."

The next demon sister lumbered through the door, darker green and even manlier than the first. What she lacked in facial hair, she more than made up for in size—at nearly seven feet tall, and built like a dump truck, she would have put most football players to shame. On her head was a vibrant shock of fiery red frizz, complete with sideburns. "You can call me Betsy." She said, giving Doyle a flirtatious wink. Her voice was almost as deep as her sister's.

Doyle began coughing uncontrollably—a pitiful attempt to hide his nervous laughter. Cordelia herself stood by with an amused smirk plastered across her face, idly wiggling the feathered fan in Doyle's general direction as she soaked up all this _entertainment_. After all, it wasn't like he was actually going to have to marry one of these hideous demon chicks—odds were they'd be rescued by Angel before that happened and they'd all laugh about this later. Much, much later. For now, Cordelia was the only one laughing as Doyle tried to keep it together on the throne.

"There is one more of my sisters, your Majesty. Though it is doubtful you would select her to fulfill the prophecy." The Groosalugg spoke hesitantly, his head bowed in apparent shame.

Doyle cleared his throat and sat forward, trying to maintain his composure. "Oh, I'm sure she's got just as good a chance as these two."

"You say that now, Sire, but she, like me, was cast out of our village due to her polluted birth." The Groosalugg explained, still keeping his head bowed. "As you will see, the curve of her lips is oddly shaped, her chest is malformed—bulging in most unusual ways—and worst of all, her heart beats in the wrong place. I hope you will not find it an insult for her to be brought into your presence."

Swallowing hard and clearly opting not to trust his voice, Doyle gave a tight nod of acceptance. He clenched his demon knuckles hard on the armrests of his throne; had he been wearing his human skin, they'd surely have turned white.

"Thank you, Sire, for your graciousness. I present my youngest sister, Nixaleen." The Groosalugg announced, motioning toward the doorway and then moving himself off to the side to stand between his other two demon sisters.

Cordelia's grin was stretched from ear to ear, her rows of pearly whites on full display as she awaited the entrance of the supposed ugliest duckling of the Groosalugg clan.

Then her smile died on her lips as a drop-dead gorgeous redhead entered the throne room—all curvy lips and bulgy chest. Her skin was flawless and pale, aside from the slight blush visible on her cheeks. Cordelia couldn't see the girl's heart beating in its wrong place, but she could practically _hear_ Doyle's pick up its pace at the sight of the breathtaking woman who now prostrated herself before him, fluttering her long, dark lashes.

"Your Majesty, you are most kind and benevolent to allow one as unworthy as myself in your presence." Nixaleen spoke, her voice soft and sweet, like a gentle bell ringing. She curtsied deeply before Doyle, allowing him a rather expansive view of her feminine assets.

Cordelia found herself instinctively dropping the long feathery fan down, so it brushed against Doyle's face, blocking his view of the attractive woman bowing before him. He began blowing the feathers out of his way, and eventually lifted his hand to shove the fan to the side, plucking a stuck feather off the tip of one of his spikes. "Hey, Cordy. Watch that thing, would ya?"

Oh, she _was_ watching alright. And she was suddenly extremely unimpressed with the show.

Doyle on the other hand, looked visibly relieved to be faced with a traditional female specimen. An appreciative grin rapidly formed on his lips. "It's, ah… lovely to meet ya."

As Cordelia started to feel a surge of annoyance, she clung to the deal breaker here—no matter how attractive this girl was, she was still a demon. And Doyle wasn't fond of demons, as a general rule. But, to look at the girl, you'd never know she was anything other than human. The only giveaway was her unnaturally black eyes, which lacked the whites around the pupils. She may also be in possession of the same set of sharp teeth that her brother had flaunted, but they weren't visible beneath her pouty lips, which were closed.

Cordelia looked over at Doyle, hoping to see the telltale signs that he was bluffing—pretending to be interested when he was still horrified by the prospect of marrying one of these demon freaks. But, Cordelia knew him too well. And that look in his eye was genuine—he liked what he was seeing. In fact, he wasn't taking his eyes off this attractive young woman.

"I wouldn't call her lovely 'til you've seen those demon teeth of hers." Cordelia grumbled, earning her a nervous glance from the slave woman at her side, and a warning glare from the guard behind her. Neither of which she paid any attention to. "There could also be teeth somewhere you're not expecting."

That last comment earned her Doyle's direct eye contact, but she was more than a little surprised to see that he looked embarrassed—and maybe just a little offended—by her comment. He gave her a pleading little shake of his head, and she rolled her eyes back at him. Even so, she bit her tongue.

On the throne room floor, Nixaleen fluttered her long lashes atop her blacker than black eyes, as she stood up straight, sweeping her flowing red hair over her shoulder, so it streamed down her back in soft waves. She either didn't hear Cordelia's comment, or was far too graceful to acknowledge it. She moved two steps over, keeping her head bowed reverently, as her brother and other two sisters moved back into the center of the room to stand in a row at the base of Doyle's throne.

"These sisters three of the Groosalugg's own blood are brought before you, Prince Doyle." Silas spoke up from his place beside the throne. "One, of your choosing, will be crowned Princess of Pylea."

"So… I'm just supposed to choose one of 'em? Right now?" Doyle inquired, his eyes lingering on Nixaleen, before he turned his questioning eyes toward the red-robed priest. "And then, ah… how long 'til the wedding?"

As Cordelia's stomach flipped over at those particular words, she forgot all about the fan in her hand, which was no longer being used for anything resembling fanning. It clattered to the floor at her feet, turning all eyes in the room on her once again. "Sorry." She chirped, bending down to retrieve the feathery item; she then fake-smiled over at Silas. "This fanning thing is _super_ hard."

"You are expected to wed your Princess on the morrow." Silas responded evenly. "We are all very anxious for you to com-shuck."

Doyle raised his brows and lowered them again, seemingly in approval of the priests words, although there was also some hesitation in his demeanor that Cordelia hoped she wasn't wrongfully interpreting. "Well, who doesn't like a good com-shuck?" He joked. Cordelia once again found herself bringing the fan down onto his head for a second time—this time much harder than the first. "Hey! Ow!"

"Oopsie! I just can't seem to get the hang of this thing." Cordelia replied faux-brightly, retracting the feathers from Doyle's face, and standing up the stick like a spear. He frowned at her as he plucked yet another feather from his facial spikes and let it drift to the floor at his feet.

"Your Majesty…?" It was Nixaleen who spoke up meekly from her place at her brother's side. Her hands were clasped together against her breastbone. "If it is not too bold of me… I request a private audience."

"Damn straight, that's too bold, sister." Cordelia scoffed, and then realized once again that all eyes were on her. This time she used Silas' disapproving eyes to her benefit. "Right? Isn't that sort of thing frowned upon by respectable demon-ladies?"

"Tis the Majesty's decision." Silas replied, looking more than a little put out to have to address Cordelia's question.

Doyle was staring at Nixaleen dumbly, his red orbs opened wide as he slowly worked the gears in his brain to interpret her meaning. "Ah, y'mean…? A private audience with me?"

"Yes, your Majesty." She confirmed, bowing her head. "If you will grant it."

"Yeah, sure." He chirped. "I grant it."

"Thank you, my Prince." Nixaleen beamed in reply, curtsying deeply in thanks.

Doyle didn't have to say any more than that. Silas nodded to the other priests and guards, who obediently fell into an exit procession behind their leader. So too, the Groosalugg bowed deeply, and then he left the room, followed by his other two sisters, who both looked about as pleased as Cordelia by the attention being afforded to their younger sister. The slave women who had been dutifully fanning Doyle all filed out as well… all except for Cordelia, who didn't move a muscle. Nor did she plan to—Doyle had another thing coming to him if he thought he was getting a _private_ private audience with this demon hoochie!

Nixaleen looked at Cordelia with curiosity, waiting expectantly for her to be dismissed, but not even the guards had tried to get the Prince's "favorite cow" to leave the throne room, having become accustomed to being reprimanded for their efforts. Cordelia sassily arched a brow at the young woman standing below the throne, and lifted the fan in her hand. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm just here in case he gets hot."

Doyle nodded along affirming Cordelia's declaration. "Ya can speak freely, ah, Nixaleen, is it?"

The red-haired young woman seemed to flush when Doyle said her name, which caused Cordelia to roll her eyes so hard they nearly got stuck in her head.

"I'd much rather you call me Nixa, my Prince." The half-demon woman requested. "That is what those who are close to my bosom call me. As I very much hope you will be."

"Oh, brother." Cordelia muttered to herself, rolling her eyes for the eleventy-billionth time.

"Your bosom…?" Doyle echoed uncertainly, his eyes involuntarily falling on that particular area of the young woman's anatomy.

"Where my heart is wrongfully placed." Nixaleen clarified, apparently embarrassed by this particular admission.

"Oh, I see." Doyle replied, nodding his head appreciatively. "Well, y'know, that's not a bad place for it. Mine's right about there as well." He used his index finger to gesture to the girl and then redirected it toward the center of his own chest in demonstration.

"You're not the first woman to have a bosom, sweetie." Cordelia grumbled under her breath, unhappily eyeing the other woman's rather ample display of cleavage.

Nixaleen gave Cordelia yet another curious glance, but quickly darted her eyes back toward Doyle's in silent question.

"Why don't ya go ahead and say whatever ya wanted to say, yeah?" Doyle encouraged Nixaleen, waving a hand to let her know she should proceed, and cheating one more pleading glance at Cordelia, silently begging her to play nice. She gave him a plastic smile in return, and no such promises.

He turned his spikey-face back toward Nixaleen, who took a cautious step closer to the bottom of Doyle's platform, her eyes raised to his hopefully. "I beg for your proper consideration, your Majesty. Although, I have no doubt that you find my polluted birth off-putting, I promise that I am capable of being a dutiful wife and Princess to our great nation." She hung her head, as she clasped her hands together anxiously. "Please, I ask that you try and see me as more than the lowly half-breed I am."

"Oh, that? There's no shame in being half human." Doyle assured her in a heartening voice, morphing into his human face as he spoke. "As it so happens… I'm a half-breed, too. See?"

Nixaleen's head slowly lifted back up and as her black eyes now met Doyle's pale green ones, rather than the red she'd seen previously, her pouty lips fell open in surprise, and then a swell of adoration crossed her features as she took in Doyle's other face. "My Prince, I had no idea!" She whispered in awe. Her naturally glowing cheeks blushed an even deeper crimson. "I thought you were the most handsome demon I'd ever seen, but I must confess, I find this face even more pleasing to gaze upon."

"Y'do?" Doyle asked happily, his smile bringing out his dimple. "This face?"

The half-demon nodded shyly in answer to his question. "As my life's blood quickens in my veins, I feel more certain than ever that it is destiny. I was born to love you…"

"Laying it on a little thick there." Cordelia groused, feeling suspiciously like her presence in the room had been forgotten, as this red-haired vixen lavished Doyle with compliments. "You met him five seconds ago—and, don't be fooled, the crown makes him look taller."

"Let the woman speak, Cordy. It's the least we can do after she's traveled all this way." Doyle lightly admonished, leaning his now non-spikey chin against his palm and smiling down at Nixaleen. "Ya were saying…?"

"I did not know of my polluted birth as a child—it was only after my blossoming into womanhood that my life-givers revealed the truth and shunned me from the village." Nixaleen explained, her dark eyes focused solely on Doyle. "Unlike my brother who was able to prove himself as the brave, undefeated champion; my shame has been unending. I sought to end my life many times, but something always stayed my hand. Now, my Prince, I believe _you_ are that something."

As she listened to Nixaleen's sob story, Cordelia's eyes nervously darted over to Doyle, who seemed to be eating it right up. No doubt because it so closely resembled his own. Talk about finding common ground to build on—this girl was the yin to Doyle's yang. Ashamed of her human side the way that Doyle had always been ashamed of his demon side.

Plus, she was hot.

The redhead's attention was intently focused on the dark-haired man seated on the throne and vice versa. If they hadn't actually forgotten that Cordelia was standing there, they were both doing a rather impressive job of ignoring her. "As I stand here, looking into your oddly-colored eyes, I can feel my wrongly-placed heart swell—it has beat in the wrong place my entire life, but it beats in the right place for you." The demon girl professed earnestly. "I only hope…" She paused dramatically, once again lowering her head in reverence. "… that you find me pleasing as well."

"Ah…" Doyle swallowed hard, and Cordelia found herself staring daggers into the side of his face. Daggers that she wished were literal at the moment. "Yeah, sure. I do."

"Excuse me, while I gag." Cordelia sniffed, finally turning away from the two of them and walking to the far end of the throne platform. Suddenly, she was no longer entertained by this show. Maybe because it now felt like the joke was on her rather than Doyle.

As if traveling to a bizzaro world where she was made a slave wasn't mortifying enough, she now had to watch as Doyle's apparent half-demon soulmate swooned at his silk-covered feet. If she'd had any previous doubts about this place being a bona fide hell dimension, she was pretty sure this moment sealed the deal.

"I feel I should warn you, my Prince, my sisters only desire the title you will bestow on them. But I desire _you_. The honor would be in becoming your bride." Nixaleen declared ardently. "If you will have me as such."

Cordelia held her breath, waiting for Doyle's reply to _that_. She felt a sharp pain in her chest, and she imagined it was from the carbon dioxide rapidly building up inside her… but it was something else as well. Something she had been trying not to acknowledge. Something she hated admitting was there.

 _Jealousy_.

She, Cordelia Chase, sexy slave girl extraordinaire, was jealous of this half-demon outcast who had managed to not only captivate Doyle with her physical beauty, but also stir his deep well of empathy. The latter part being the real danger. The half-demon area was something Cordelia had never been able to identify with—she'd accepted it, wholeheartedly, but that had never seemed to matter. Based on what Doyle had admitted to her in the library a few days prior, his continued insecurities and fears about his half-demon status was probably a big part of the reason they'd broken up and was _entirely_ the reason they'd stayed that way. He hadn't even tried to share any of that with her—he'd chosen to be alone, instead. And now, here was someone who understood those things completely.

A wave of nausea hit her, and it wasn't lessened by the nervous chuckle she heard escape Doyle's throat. "Y'know, ya say that now, but you've only just met me, darlin'. After a few weeks o' me tossing my dirty laundry around the castle ya might not be so thrilled by the idea of a life-long commitment."

"I am certain there is no other for me, but you." Nixaleen assured him, clearly not understanding the joke, and answering as earnestly as she'd said everything else.

Cordelia snorted loudly at that, and whirled around to give this eyelash-batting demon floozie a quick lesson in the difference between thirty seconds of lust versus _real love_ that could last a lifetime. Her jaw opened, her tongue prepared to begin its verbal assault—but, she never got the chance to speak, due to the loud clangor of the throne room doors rapidly opening.

Commander Narwek and several guards marched in, their metal armor clanking loudly upon their entrance. A bound and gagged Lorne was carelessly yanked into the center of the room and shoved down on his knees before Doyle.

"Majesty." Narwek addressed Doyle respectfully, bowing his head. "Forgive my intrusion, but I have a matter of utmost importance… The bach-nal has been disrupted, and we have brought the prisoner for swift justice. Shall we execute him in the public square to set an example?"

Doyle was still dreamily grinning down at Nixaleen, but he finally shook himself back to his senses as his gaze shifted first to Narwek—and then to Lorne. As he slowly processed that Lorne was the prisoner in question, Doyle abruptly leapt out of his throne and hurried down the platform steps. "No! Absolutely not!" He yelled, helping Lorne to his feet and yanking the gag from his mouth. He then gestured to the guards to un-cuff his demon friend. "He's pardoned. Take these things off and let him go."

"Thanks, sugar-puss." Lorne said with a grateful wink, holding out his shackled wrists so the guards could unlock and remove the heavy metal cuffs. "I told them it was a waste of time to arrest me and bring me here, but you know how some folks just _insist_ on doing things the hard way."

"I know it." Doyle agreed, cheating a glance over at Nixaleen who was still standing bashfully at the foot of the dais, blushing up a storm. Meanwhile, Cordelia stood defiantly beside Doyle's throne, still looking killer in her slave girl ensemble—and also wearing the deadliest glare Doyle had ever seen. He turned back to Lorne, pulling the taller demon a few steps farther out of earshot and whispering conspiratorially. "Listen, bud, Cordy and I are sorta trapped here for the time being—forced to play along with this whole Messiah-prophecy puppet show. I need ya to find Wesley—I'm assuming he made it outta the castle, but he's gonna need your help interpreting those holy triangle books."

"Your Majesty." One of the guards bellowed from the front entryway, causing Doyle to turn and glance at him questioningly. "The lady, Trizzabett, has also requested a private audience."

Doyle gulped hard and then turned back to Lorne with wide, desperate eyes. "It's _imperative_ we get a portal home as quickly as possible."

Lorne had followed the path of Doyle's previous gaze to both Nixaleen and Cordelia, and snorted in agreement. "You ain't kidding. From the looks of things, that lovely young lady is about to be turned into a pile of dust by fair Cordelia's eyeballs. What's that all about?"

"Ya ever hear o' the com-shuck?' Doyle wondered, scratching the side of his cheek.

"Ancient mating ritual of the cursed one, yeah, sure—Oh!" Lorne's eyes widened in realization. " _Oh_." He gave a little eyebrow wriggle in Nixaleen's direction. "Suddenly this picture is being painted in vibrant neon colors—seriously, you should _see_ Cordelia's aura right now."

"She's pretty mad, huh?" Doyle surmised.

"Homicidal wouldn't be too strong a word." Lorne filled in the proper descriptor, and then reached out and patted Doyle on the shoulder encouragingly. "Good thing you're the Prince. If she does kill anyone, you can always pardon her, just like you did me."

"Yeah, you'd think that, wouldn't ya?" Doyle muttered, cheating another worried glance over his shoulder. "But I get the feeling it's not actually _me_ these guys are listening to. So, do me a favor, bud, find Wesley and Angel, and tell 'em the sooner we get outta this circle of hell the better. Otherwise I might end up a married man again." He cheated one final glance back at the fuming Cordelia. "Or a dead one."


	66. Through the Looking Glass, Pt 4

**"Through the Looking Glass," Part IV**

" _Look at me. I'm a sexy demon. Notice my large bosom_." Cordelia sang mockingly as she followed at Doyle's heels down the shadowy stone corridor that led back to his chambers. He'd reverted to his demon form while entertaining the Groosalugg's other sisters, and he still wore his spikes as they traversed the maze of winding hallways. "God, Doyle, I can't believe you were falling for that—those chicks were totally playing you."

Doyle sighed for what had to be the fifth time in as many minutes. He tossed a nervous glance over his shoulder and saw that they were still being trailed by a pair of palace guards, who had probably been assigned to make sure Doyle went back to his own chambers like a good little Prince. "Let's get something straight here, darlin', I wasn't fallin' for anything—I was just tryin' to be _nice_. It's not that foreign a concept, yeah?"

"You were way nicer to the redhead than the other two." Cordelia huffed in reply. " _How convenient, I'm half-human, too. We have soooo much in common._ Wonder whose job it is to mop the drool you left behind in that throne room."

Keeping his back toward Cordelia, so she wouldn't see him roll his eyes at that comment, he continued with their little repartee. "Ya really think Nixa was playin' me? 'Cause, I kinda thought she was bein' sincere…"

"Oh, so it's Nixa now." Cordelia snorted in return. "See what I mean—you totally fell for her act."

Doyle paused a few yards away from his chamber door, and turned to cock a questioning brow at her. "Is it really that hard to believe she'd find me attractive?" He tried to shake off his demon face to plead his case, but found that he was stuck for the moment. Well, that was annoying. He'd been doing so well for a while.

"Attractive, maybe." Cordelia allowed, as she halted across from him, unaffected by the demon face he still wore. "But Sarah Bernhardt's line-reading was _way_ over-the-top. _Oh, my Prince, I was born to love you_. I mean, yeah, Doyle, you're pretty cute, but your face—neither of your faces—are gonna launch a thousand ships—or even a thousand toy boats. She just wants you to pick her so she can one-up her ugly step-sisters. Duh!"

A grin suddenly broke out on Doyle's demon lips, earning a perplexed stare from the brunette across from him. "Y'think I'm cute?" He asked with an air of surprise. "Y'know, all that time we dated, and I can't remember ya ever directly complimenting my looks before."

Cordelia narrowed her eyes in response, looking like she wanted to disagree, but then gave the statement a little more thought. "Well… your clothes are usually so hideous that it's hard to notice what the rest of you looks like. Plus the crown really brings out your eyes."

"Uh huh." Doyle responded, still grinning like an idiot, even as the two guards that had been clanking along behind the parrying couple, had paused just behind them.

"Your Majesty, the palace cows can be summoned to turn down your bed, or will this one be tending to your needs this evening?" One of the two guards inquired.

"In his dreams." Cordelia sniffed in reply, giving the guard some serious side-eye.

Doyle, having been reminded that they weren't alone, and weren't likely to ever get a moment alone to make their getaway, finally ripped his smiling eyes away from Cordelia. "Ah… yeah." He said, placing a hand on Cordelia's shoulder. "She'll be staying with me. For my needs."

At that point, he couldn't resist, giving her a teasing wink, which earned him a trademark roll of her eyes. Doyle turned back to the guards with a hopeful smile. "You're dismissed."

"We have been assigned to guard your door, Majesty." The second guard spoke, confirming what Doyle had feared was probably the case.

"Really? You're both gonna stand out here all night?" Doyle wondered. "Don't they have a poker game over there in the barracks? If not, I'm thinking ya should start one. I might even be tempted to come over and join ya!"

"It is imperative that you remain in the castle, Sire." The first guard clarified. "Where you shall be protected at all times, per the Trombli's instructions."

"The Trombli." Doyle repeated the word, which tasted bitter in his mouth. "That'd be Silas and the other priests, yeah?"

"They know best, your Majesty." The second guard confirmed.

Doyle looked from one armor-clad guard to the other, guessing there wasn't much he could do to convince these guys to defy their priests. "I guess I'll just be getting to bed, then. Seems like I have a big day ahead—choosing my wife and all that." He hitched his thumb behind him, indicating the closed door to his chamber, and then anxiously turned to approach the door. Opening it, he shuffled Cordelia inside the room ahead of himself, and paused to watch the two guards dutifully take their positions on either side of the entryway.

No one was getting in those doors—or out of them—without being seen, that was for sure.

Closing the door behind him, Doyle trudged into the lavish royal chambers, his shoulders slumped in defeat. They wouldn't be escaping anytime soon, which meant Doyle was going to have to think of some other way to delay his pending nuptials.

Cordelia had crossed directly to the side of the bed, where she now stood with her brow arched in consideration. Leaning forward, she yanked back the top covers and ran her hand over the shiny, smooth material she found underneath. "One thing I'll say for this craptastic demon world—they don't skimp on the silk. This bed will be heaven to sleep in."

Doyle took a moment to admire the woman who was currently fondling his royal bed sheets. Yearning to be human in her presence, he strained to change his appearance. Thankfully, it worked this time. He was able to gaze at her with his human eyes, which didn't negate any of the ungentlemanly thoughts that had crossed his demon mind. Even so, he made the appropriately gentlemanly offer. "The bed's all yours. I'll sleep on the, the, ah—"

Suddenly Doyle's tongue felt numb in his mouth as he was distracted from the woman hovering at his bedside, by the woman who had just exited his bathing suite, wearing what was obviously meant to be an undergarment of some sort, judging by the practically transparent material.

"How-how did ya get in here?" He stammered, lacking a better question or higher brain functions.

"Pardon my boldness, Sire." Nixaleen said sweetly, sashaying closer to where Doyle stood gaping. "I wish to prove that I'd be a worthy bride by offering myself to you on this night." She began to slide one of the straps of her borderline see-through garment off her shoulder. "Should you still prefer one of my sisters come morning, at least I will have known one night of joy."

Seeing her begin to undress, Doyle found himself breaking free of his temporary paralysis. He swiftly bounded forward, seizing her hand and sliding the strap securely back into place. "No, ah—please don't." He objected, swallowing hard as he caught the flurry of movement from the other side of the room out of the corner of his eye.

The flurry was Cordelia, who'd launched herself like a fury-fueled rocket. "You demon slut!" She shouted, prompting Doyle to turn and catch her around the waist. "I knew the virginal outcast thing was all an act!"

"I think there is something wrong with this beast of yours, Majesty." Nixaleen's wary voice spoke from behind Doyle. "She consistently speaks out of turn—I suspect madness."

"Oh, I'll give you madness!" Cordelia spat another verbal torpedo over Doyle's shoulder.

"Cordy." Doyle begged quietly, still keeping his arms snuggly wrapped around Cordelia's small waist, for fear that she'd continue her forward trajectory, should he let go. "Is all that really necessary? No need to embarrass the girl."

Cordelia gave something resembling a snarl in reply. "I don't think she needs my help for that, considering she's prostituting herself for a crown!"

"Cordy, please?" Doyle pled again. "Knock it off and let me handle this, yeah?"

Giving Doyle one final contemptuous expression, making sure her disapproval was duly noted, she shoved Doyle's arms off her body and gritted a final objection through her teeth. "Piece of advice, sweetie—he's not gonna buy the cow, if he can get the milk for free." With that, she turned her back on Doyle. Stomping several yards away to a safe distance, Cordelia spun back around and folded her arms over her chest to observe the proceedings.

"I am only half-cow." Nixaleen choked back defensively. Doyle cheated a glance over his shoulder to see that the girl looked terribly offended, and more than a little mortified. Her posture had changed and she had now lowered her chin and was using her arms to shield herself. "I have never been sold. But, perhaps… this cow is right. I am no better than she."

Doyle was still facing Cordelia, so he was able to silently warn her from flinging whatever retort had clearly surfaced to her lips. She rolled her eyes, and made a show of metaphorically zipping them shut. Exhaling deeply and dropping his shoulders, Doyle finally turned to face the humiliated half-demon now cowering behind him.

"I am so ashamed." She continued, in a small, shaky voice. "I don't deserve to stand here in your royal presence."

"Hey, hey, there'll be none o' that, love. You're just fine standing there…" Doyle said easily, taking a step closer to the red-headed figure, who appeared to be trembling. "Although, maybe we get ya something to cover up that, ah… dress. The castle's real drafty." His eyes darted around the room, landing on something that looked like a throw blanket strewn across one of the chaise lounges in the corner. Doyle quickly crossed the room, grabbed the blanket and hastily situated it around Nixaleen's shoulders. "Much better, yeah? Now ya won't catch your death of cold."

"I know you must punish me for this transgression, your Majesty." The girl replied, wrapping the thick, opaque material around herself protectively, not daring to lift her eyes. "It is deserved."

"Ah… no, I won't be doing anything of the sort." Doyle assured her. "I mean, I don't plan on taking ya up on your, ah, _offer_. But this whole thing—well, it's really sort of flattering, yeah?"

Nixaleen's head slowly began to rise, so that her dark eyes locked with Doyle's. Although, still apprehensive, she was clearly very much relieved. "Does this mean… am I still in your good graces?"

"Yeah, o' course. Good as ever." Doyle said, with a wave of his hand. Hearing the slight snort from Cordelia in the background, he decided he shouldn't extend those good graces longer than necessary. "Now, is there a way to get ya outta here without those guards seeing?" He asked hopefully. "A back door? Or a secret passage?"

"None that I know of, my Prince. I simply entered the front door whilst no guards were posted." She explained, misunderstanding why Doyle was so interested in the manner of her exit. "If you send me away, they will surely see and there will be talk."

Doyle's briefly rising hopes of an escape for he and Cordelia rapidly plummeted. "I'll think of something." He assured the anxious girl before him, reaching out to take her by the hand and gently, but hastily, towing her toward the front door.

He opened the door swiftly, and found the two guards standing stalwartly at their posts. "Hey there, guys, so… funny story—seems young Nixaleen here, thought this room was hers." He tugged the red-head forward and then gave her a gentle push into the hallway, still securely wrapped in the blanket. "Think ya can see to it she gets safely to her _actual_ room? And maybe not tell anyone—like say, her undefeated champion of a brother—that this little mishap occurred?"

The guards exchanged a skeptical look, neither one of them daring to move. The one on the right side of the door spoke mechanically. "Straight down this corridor, make a left at the row of three torches."

"You're not gonna escort the lady?" Doyle asked with surprise, and veiled disappointment. "For a medieval dimension, there's not a whole lot in the way of chivalry, is there?"

"We are not to leave our post under any circumstances, your Majesty." The guard on the left hand side of the door clarified.

"I will be alright, my Prince." Nixaleen assured him, giving an awkward curtsy from the folds of her blanket. "Thank you for being so magnanimous about my _mistake_."

She blushed deeply and flashed Doyle a grateful smile, before flitting away down the hallway, in the direction the guards had instructed her. Doyle gave each of the guards one final, irritated look before slamming the door and turning to face the furious brunette who still remained in his bedchamber.

"What the hell, Doyle?!" Cordelia shrieked, from where she stood at the foot of his bed. Her arms had been crossed, but she opened them and threw them in the air wildly.

"What ya mad at me for?!" He retorted defensively, not moving from his safe place in front of the door—keeping the full span of the room between them. "That wasn't my fault. I didn't ask 'er to come here."

"But, you wanted her to!" She accused back, her eyes blazing with anger. "Admit it, Doyle, the royal chippy treatment has gone to your head. You _like_ it here! You want to stay and be accepted for your spikes and be King and have a beautiful half-demon wife to listen to all your half-demon problems!"

Doyle ventured a few cautious steps forward, holding up his hands in the universal sign for surrender as he halved the distance between he and Cordelia. "Whoa, whoa, now hold on a minute—forget how wrong y'are about all that other stuff, darlin'. Do ya really think I could _like_ it here with the way they've treated you? I thought y'knew me better than that."

"So did I!" She shot back fiercely. "Now I have to wonder."

"Wonder what exactly?" Doyle questioned, starting to feel more than a little offended. He continued to slowly creep forward, stopping at a more natural conversational distance. "I wanna get outta here as much as you do—but, that isn't an option at the moment thanks to the guards posted outside the door, not to mention all the rest throughout the place."

"You told her it was flattering." Cordelia scolded him, placing her hands on her hips as if she'd revealed some horrible sin he'd committed. "Not wrong or inappropriate or kinda gross, but _flattering_!"

"Well… yeah, it _was_." Doyle admitted, with a shrug. "A beautiful woman finds me desirable—ya expect me not to be flattered by that? I don't see why you're so upset about it. Not like I took advantage of 'er little crush—I sent her away, if ya hadn't noticed."

"Of course, you sent her away. I was standing right here. Hello!" Cordelia shot back, utterly unimpressed by what he thought was so noble an action.

Doyle wrinkled his brow, trying to figure out where this conversation had gone wrong. "So, wait… you're thinking I woulda accepted her offer if ya hadn't been standing here?"

She raised her brows knowingly in response. "Um, yeah!"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." He bit back with annoyance, narrowing his eyes at Cordelia. "I'm not interested in Nixaleen—or any of 'er sisters, before ya start accusing me of _really_ crazy things."

"You could have fooled me." Cordelia huffed, directing her eyes toward the ceiling and refolding her arms over her chest. "Looked like Little Miss Demon Bosom had your _rapt_ attention when she offered to take off all her clothes!"

"There's no point in trying to reason with ya when you're being this pig-headed." Doyle argued, at a loss for any more sensible argument. There were only so many times he could point out what he had done, or as it so happened, what he had _not_ done.

"Don't you mean cow-headed?!" She snorted. "Maybe you should put my collar back on and shock me for my insolence, _your_ _Majesty_."

"Y'know, ya used to think I was a nice guy." Doyle reminded her, holding his arms open in frustration. "When did that change?"

"You're right." She retorted, not sounding any less condemning, despite the fact that she seemed to be agreeing with him. "You are a nice guy, Doyle. That girl would be lucky to have you de-virginize her. So, maybe you should go take her up on her offer."

"Huh?" He asked dumbly, definitely not understanding this particular detour in the conversation. "Now you're telling me to sleep with her? Gotta say, Cordy, I'm not following your logic here. Mostly 'cause it's lacking the logic part."

"You're a single guy—she's a single girl. And you both clearly wanna make with the com-shucking." Cordelia said matter-of-factly. "So, go ahead. Have a grand old time. Just send her brother in my direction, while you're at it."

" _That_ guy?" Doyle frowned as he pictured the muscular warrior, who was Doyle's polar opposite in every way.

"You can do whatever you want." Cordelia prodded, dismissing further talk of the Groosalugg. "You're the crowned Prince, remember?"

"I remember." He replied, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Then, do it!" She insisted, her eyes flashing.

"Yeah?" He asked, taking a step closer to her and studying her expression closely—she wasn't telling him, she was daring him. "There's nothing stopping me?"

"Absolutely nothing." She could see he was daring her to keep on daring him.

"Fine." He answered. "I will."

Then he did. Quite promptly.

Doyle pulled Cordelia flush against him and kissed her soundly on the mouth.

He noticed her eyes widen with surprise as his lips crashed-landed onto hers, but it was barely a matter of seconds before she was kissing him back in a firestorm of lips and tongues. He had her pinned against one of the wide bedposts that decorated the overly-elaborate canopy bed, and he freely let his hands wander over her smooth flesh as soon as it became apparent she wasn't going to push him away.

Then, she _did_ push him away, attempting to catch her breath. Her hand remained firmly planted in the center of his chest, allowing him to remain close, while still keeping a definitive blockade between them. The palms of his hands remained where they had landed prior to the time-out—which was to say, spread flat across the semi-bare flesh of her bottom.

"What are you doing?" Her breathing was rapid, her eyes opened as wide as they could go.

"You said I should get what I want." Doyle pointed out, his eyes darting from her lips that he very much wanted to continue kissing, to her eyes, which were churning with conflicting emotions. "In case ya hadn't guessed by now, this is it."

"Me?" She echoed, as she blinked up at him in astonishment. "You still want _me_?"

" _O'course_ , I still want you. You're all I've wanted since the day I first laid eyes on ya." He proclaimed. "There was never a moment when I _didn't_ want you."

His voice had gotten a little huskier as he finished his last sentence, mostly because he noticed that Cordelia's eyes were now doing that thing where they were firmly focused on his lips, indicating that she, too, was interested in seguing back to the part where there was far less talking.

"Oh." She uttered simply, keeping her hand on his chest, but letting it go slack. What had initially been a barrier between them, became a subtle invitation. Her fingertips gently grazed the bare skin that peeked out of his low shirt-collar, and Doyle knew she must've felt the rise in his body temperature, as well as the rapid increase of his heartbeat thudding inside his chest.

He licked his lips and saw her brow quirk in response, apparently finding the movement enticing. Taking that as a good sign, he cautiously leaned in as he spoke to her in a low voice. "What about you?" He urged gently. "You still want me? After everything that happened?"

There was the slightest flash of apprehension visible in her eyes, although they were still mostly clouded with desire. Her voice was uncharacteristically rough as she leaned back against the bedpost, encouraging him to move even closer. "I've always wanted you." She confessed. "Even when I really didn't _want_ _to_... which was really infuriating."

"I always did have that effect on ya." Doyle responded knowingly, flashing her a devilish grin. His nose was less than an inch away from hers as he spoke. "That mean we're doing what I think we're doing here?"

"Yes." She answered distractedly, and then shook her head, trying to bring herself halfway back to reality. "I mean—I don't know. We should probably talk first… don't you think?"

"Uh huh." Doyle agreed, as he became preoccupied by the idea of nibbling on her adorable little earlobe. He slowly let his lips drift in that direction, taking a slight detour at her jawbone, hovering only a centimeter away from her flesh.

"Because we, um…" Cordelia sighed contentedly as his breath teased the tender skin of her neck, and she reflexively tilted her head to the side, offering him better access, should he go in for the kill. "Need to discuss… things."

"Mmmm." Doyle hummed another agreement, before gently grazing his lips against her pulse point, applying just a little more pressure against her body with his own.

"Or not." She conceded, getting drawn further into the haze of desire.

Doyle didn't even bother verbally responding this time, he gently used his teeth instead, and increased the pressure of his fingers on her flesh, reminding her exactly where it was they'd been resting all this time.

"The crown is really sexy." She admitted, sliding both her hands up his chest, twining them around his neck and letting them land in his thick, dark hair. The sexy crown remained untouched at the top as she invited Doyle's mouth to meet her own, urging him to once again pin her to the bedpost. Which he did, all too eagerly.

He was so relieved to be kissing her again. He couldn't stop to worry about the fact that there were still so many things left unsaid. Nothing else seemed to matter, except that the woman he adored still seemed to want him as much as he wanted her.

The explosion of kisses was hot and desperate as they both fully gave in to their desire, letting instinct take over. They'd had more than enough practice in the past, and the time apart hadn't caused them to lose a step. All their movements were still perfectly choreographed—perfectly in time with the other.

Their clothes were hastily shed—not all left intact—and they had barely made it onto the bed's silky sheets when Doyle found himself buried deep inside her, producing those low, guttural moans that _completely_ unraveled him.

For the first time, in a long time, he was right where he wanted to be—right where he was supposed to be.

He had made it home.


	67. Through the Looking Glass, Pt 5

**"Through the Looking Glass," Part V**

Doyle closed his eyes as his breathing finally slowed to a more moderate pace. He couldn't imagine being any more content than he was at that particular moment—assuming he ignored the part where he was stuck in a hell dimension.

But, that part was pretty easy to ignore at the moment.

The torchlight flickered, stirred by the soft breeze that entered through the wide castle windows. The silky sheets of the giant bed were cool beneath his warm skin, which was covered in a thin sheen of sweat from his recent physical exertion. Best of all, in the crook of his arm, he held the person he loved most in the world. Her soft head of hair tickled at his skin, and her own heated flesh was pressed against his side; her fingers lay loosely in the dark curly hairs that adorned his chest.

Doyle let out a soft, satisfied chuckle. Continuing to relish in the fact that they lay tangled in each other's arms, the echoes of their recent lovemaking still rippling through their bodies. "Ah, darlin'. Gotta say, outta all the things I imagined would happen in this place, us getting back together wasn't one of 'em."

Like puzzles pieces, they fit back together perfectly. Completely in sync.

"We're not back together."

Doyle's eyes shot wide open as the cold bucket of water of Cordelia's words washed over him. He looked down at the top of her head, which was all he could currently see, wondering if he had, perhaps, misheard her. He really _hoped_ he'd misheard her.

"I think that was a mistake." She reiterated, twisting her head up to face him. Now he could clearly see that her eyes were as uneasy as her previous words had been, and his heart began to sink. She slowly pushed herself upright, pulling the sheet up and over her chest protectively.

"Huh?!" He asked in bewilderment, not quite able to believe his ears, considering what had just transpired between them. He inelegantly pushed himself up on his elbows, staring at her with bemusement. "Which time?"

"I'm not saying the sex was bad." She clarified, pausing as she recalled just how good it was. "It was _really_ good. Great even." She seemed lost for a moment, but then shook herself out of the dreamy fog, scooting herself around to face him properly, careful to keep the sheets firmly in place over her chest. "Ugh, see, _that's_ exactly why it was a mistake. It just confuses everything."

"I dunno about you, Princess, but I wasn't confused until right now." Doyle answered disappointedly. "How's great sex working against us, exactly?"

" _Because_ sex was never our problem, Doyle." She reminded him. "Wanting each other in the full carnal knowledge sense—that was always the easy part. Too easy, case in point."

"Still not seeing the downside." He said with a mischievous smirk. "But, just to be clear—when I said I wanted ya, I didn't just mean a roll in the royal sheets. I was talking 'bout the whole package, same as before."

"And you think ripping each other's clothes off like some oversexed teenagers means—boom! We pick up right where we left off and live happily ever after?" She challenged.

"Is that a trick question?" He asked skeptically.

"The spark between us was never up for debate—it's always been there—and we broke up anyway. Getting fleshy with each other wasn't just ignoring the elephant in the room, it was inviting it along for a joyride!" She threw her hands in the air in frustration, but then quickly caught her sheet before it fell. "My point is—our sex life, steamy as it may be, is not going to get us further than these very silky bed sheets."

Doyle nodded, finally understanding where she was going with all this, and he supposed he couldn't disagree—he just wasn't expecting to sort out all their issues at _this_ particular moment, when all he wanted to do was lie in those aforementioned bed sheets, hold her close and bask in their post-coital glow.

"Okay, I do see what ya mean 'bout the, ah… elephant there." He replied delicately, pushing himself all the way into an upright seated position and running a hand through his hair, which was mussed from the evening's activities. He gave her a flash of the dimple, hoping it'd work in his favor. "The thing of it is—I have no doubts here, Cordy. I'm ready to start over. If you're not, then tell me what needs to happen to change that—I _can_ change it, yeah?"

"I hope so." She said softly and meaningfully, causing a rapid fluttering in his chest. He was staring at her face, open and honest, giving him what he needed, what she always gave him—the truth. "I just… need to feel less scared, I guess."

"Of me?" He blurted, his brain immediately connecting the dots back to their unfinished conversation in the library. "I told ya, I was wrong about what's happening to me—I'm not becoming any more of a demon than I already am."

WHACK!

She had swatted him so instantaneously that it took him a moment to comprehend that she was, in fact, the cause of the sharp sting in his upper arm. "Ow! Hey!" He objected, rubbing the reddened flesh of his bare bicep. "What was that for?!"

"Way to validate my fears, demon-boy!" Cordelia fired back with annoyance. "You want me to tell you how we can start over, and the first thing you do is the _exact_ _thing_ that ruined us the first time—wrongfully assume I'll freak about your demon stuff—that's you, not me, remember?"

"Alright, I get it. Stupid conclusion my part." He grumbled, still rubbing at his sore arm. "But, do ya have to hit so _hard_?"

"Stop being such a baby and pay attention." She sassed him.

"I _am_ payin' attention, Princess." He assured her with an irritated pout.

"You wanna know what I need? For starters, you have to promise you won't do the same thing you did before. Because I can't do it all again, Doyle—I can't go back to what we had and then lose it all over again. _That's_ what scares me."

Doyle nodded along sympathetically. "Yeah, o'course. I'm scared of that, too."

"No. It's not the same for you." She rebutted, her face set in its most serious expression. "You did this before. The love, the loss, and most importantly, the moving on." She hesitated, dipping her eyes downward into the silky sheets that twined around them. He saw color rise to her cheeks as she swallowed hard against whatever had given her pause. "You proved you can do it… what if I can't? I've never let anyone in the way I did with you. I gave you _all_ of me, and you _know_ how hard that was, or, at least, I thought you did…"

"I know." He assured her, reaching out to gently touch her elbow, and letting this thumb stroke the soft flesh he found there.

Her eyes fell on the place where their skin connected and he saw some of the standoffishness drain from her body only to rapidly re-manifest. "Hands off, Doyle." She instructed.

"I think we're way past the no touching bit, yeah?" He quipped, but then lifted his hand away from her bare skin and held it up in a sign of peace. "Keeping my hands to myself."

Blowing out a long deep breath, she raised her eyes to meet his once again. The emotions visibly whirling within them. "I should be moving on, but instead I'm right back on the same path I was before. The path to being _yours_. And, it scares me because I always thought what we had was special, y'know? Permanent. Unlike you, I never thought it would end."

"I didn't mean that." Doyle clarified, wishing he could take back those hurtful words he'd said long ago. "I only said that to—"

"Push me away?" She completed his sentence. "Just like you were doing before we broke up, right? Throwing yourself into the work, hardly even talking to me. It wasn't my imagination—you were doing it on purpose."

"Well, that's not entirely what happened. There were certain things I couldn't tell ya—" Doyle disputed, but she raised her index finger indignantly, cutting him off at the pass.

"Don't even _think_ of using the top-secret future stuff as an excuse, buddy. Not this time." She countered, arching a brow at him. "This is about you having a demon-identity crisis and keeping it from me. Instead of letting me in when it really mattered, you chose to shut me out. I would have been there for you—I could've helped. Isn't that what relationships are about? Not just sharing the good stuff, but sharing the bad stuff, too?"

"Yeah." Doyle agreed, his shoulders slumping forward under the power of her reprimanding gaze. "I'd like to think I woulda come to ya eventually—I just wasn't ready. Not when you were still around to hear it."

"If I'd known the truth, I would have never left." She stated plainly. "You didn't just cut me out of your problems, Doyle, you cut me off from _you_ —even worse, you let me think that I mattered less than everything else that was going on, instead of just trusting me."

"Is that what y'think?" Doyle wondered. "That I didn't trust ya?"

"What other reason could you have for not coming to me?" She asked sadly. "You thought I couldn't handle your big bad demon secret—that you'd tell me you were about to become a giant walking pincushion full-time and I'd run screaming in the other direction."

"Well, that's where you're wrong." He clarified. "I wasn't afraid you'd run, I was afraid ya _wouldn't_. I didn't want ya to be stuck with that giant pincushion for the rest of your life."

"Even if I wanted to be stuck with him?" She asked rhetorically. One of her arms remained across her chest, holding the sheet in place, the other traced soft anxious patterns in the blankets only a few inches from where his hand rested. "That was my choice to make, Doyle. You can't decide what I need without even _consulting_ me."

"I never meant to do that." Doyle replied, suddenly getting a rather extreme case of déjà vu, as complaints he'd once heard from Harriet echoed through his head. Only this time was worse, since he'd thought he'd already learned that particular lesson. "I was just trying—" He stopped and gulped loudly.

"Go ahead. Say it." She dared him.

"I don't wanna." He whined. "You're gonna hit me again."

"I won't hit you again." She promised, raising her hand in a vow. "Scout's honor."

"Were ya actually a scout?" He wondered, crinkling his brows skeptically. "I don't recall ya ever mentioning that before."

"Fine—I'll say it." She said with exasperation. "You were trying to protect me, right?"

Doyle fidgeted beneath the covers, his eyes darting toward the open window where the much-too-dark sky waited outside. They might've had double the sun here in Pylea, but they were sorely lacking in moonlight. "Yeah." He mumbled, clearing his throat nervously. "That was the general idea."

"Well, knock off the knight in bad thrift shop armor act, will ya!" She blurted out at such a volume, he jumped back involuntarily, forced to grant her eye contact once more.

"That's never gonna happen." He declared ardently, his eyes glimmered as they caught the flickering torchlight in the room. "As long as there's breath left in this body, it'll be used to protect ya, Princess. Whether we're together or not. That bit's hardwired in there, yeah?"

He watched his words land, melting away some of her icy veneer. "I appreciate that, Doyle. I really do. But, good luck protecting me from the never-ending stream of demons who want to maim and kill us. It comes with the job."

"There are other jobs." Doyle suggested offhandedly, knowing that wasn't really the point.

"You're right. There are other jobs. But, fighting the good fight _isn't_ just a job—it's a calling. It's _my_ calling. I know that now." She blinked several times, seemingly waiting for him to object, but he was far too impressed by her words to even consider interrupting. "I accept that I'll never have a normal life—it will always be full of magic and mayhem and demons… What I won't accept is you trying to protect me from the one demon I actually want there."

"That would be me?" Doyle asked unnecessarily, receiving a beleaguered nod from the woman sitting across from him. "Don't ya worry, love. I've definitely learned my lesson on that last bit— _protecting_ ya only works when I'm actually _with_ ya. That's when this all worked best, yeah? When we were a team?"

"Well, yeah…" She agreed. "It's the foundation of our entire business model. You were there for Angel, I was there for you." Her voice got softer toward the end of her sentence, as did her eyes.

Doyle nodded, feeling a sudden wave of sadness hit him. "I just wish I'd been there for _you_ when ya needed me most."

"I wish you'd been there, too." She admitted, her fingers finally daring to brush over his on the sheets. Her next words coming as little more than a whisper. "But you're here now."

His vision blurred slightly as a thin sheen of tears coated them, but he blinked them away and nodded his agreement. Seeing his emotional reaction, she shifted closer to him, keeping her one hand on his hand, she let go of the sheet that had been covering her body and lifted her other hand to the side of his face, stroking it affectionately. In turn, he gently urged her closer to his chest, so he could fully wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her shoulder. She came willingly, draping her own arms around his bare upper body, settling against him. The moment was long and quiet, with the gentle breeze from the window only enhancing the perfect, silent consolation they found in each other's arms.

It was long overdue, and seemed far more effective than words.

"Doyle?" Her voice came out muffled against his chest, so she lifted her head, but remained close. She kept her voice low since she was still fully in his arms, her mouth close to his ear. "You never said why your demon powers were all out-of-whack. I mean, why did it happen? And will it ever stop happening? And when you say you can smell _everything_ —what does that mean exactly?"

He sighed heavily, and lifted his finger to idly swipe a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. "Ah, yeah… Guess I should probably tell ya 'bout all that, huh? Since, it may be the deciding factor where our blissful reunion is concerned."

"How so?" She asked worriedly, moving only slightly so she could see his eyes better. "I thought you said you were wrong about becoming full-time demon-guy."

"Truth is, darlin'. I have no idea what'll happen long-term, seeing how I'm long past my intended expiration date." He confessed, working hard to keep his voice as calm as possible even as he felt his insides lurch with instinctive anxiety. "Turns out there's a reason messengers tend to be so short-lived. The visions don't just _look_ painful—they actually do some real damage." He saw the flash of fear cross Cordelia's features, which is why he hurriedly continued. "But the Powers were wise in choosing a half-demon such as myself—it's only the human side that takes damage. The demon side does just fine. In fact... it _heals_." He tapped an index finger against his temple. "All my 'whacked out' demon abilities are just side-effects of the good fight going on up here."

The corners of her mouth flickered ever so slightly into an upward curve as she processed his words. "Your demon DNA is helping you?"

"Feel free to rub it in all ya want—Lord knows, Angel did." Doyle said with a snort, but then planted his pale eyes firmly back on her dark ones as he continued. "My future's unknown, Princess. The visions could get worse for all I know. And, if they do, there could come a time when the demon'll be the only part o' me left standing. So, there it is. That's the truth, and the choice is yours. I wouldn't blame ya if you're not interested in that particular prize-package." Taking a brief pause to swallow away his nerves. "But… if you're up for it, I'm thinking I could use a hand to hold through the rough bits."

"And you'd be willing to hold my hand?" She asked, with the trace of a bittersweet smile.

"Well, your hands are way softer than Angel's." He replied, trying to keep the mood on the lighter side that they'd finally settled into.

The microscopic smile didn't leave her lips, as her eyes grazed over his face and her right hand found its way back up into his hair, lightly twirling the dark fuzz that lived there. "Can you do it without pulling away?" She wondered. "No matter what? Even if you suddenly grow horns and a tail?"

"If you're willing to keep holding on." He said sincerely.

Cordelia continued to stare at him, the gears visibly turning in her head. As the seconds of silence ticked by, he worried that her thoughtful decision-making process wasn't going to end with the answer he wanted to hear.

When she finally spoke again, it nearly caught him off guard. "It has to be all or nothing this time." She said simply. "No secrets, no walls, no protection _from_ _each_ _other_. We'd have to be a team, in every sense. Those are my terms."

"All." He agreed swiftly. "Definitely all. 'Cause everything ya said, that's what I want, too."

"Do you really mean that?" She wondered, narrowing her eyes at him. "Or are we setting ourselves for a wash, rinse, repeat cycle?"

"I won't make the same mistake twice." He promised. "But, y'know… I'll probably make some new ones."

"Oh, I'll bet on that." She agreed with a dry chuckle.

"So, what is it that happened here tonight, darlin'?" Doyle wondered. "Did I make love to my girlfriend, or are ya just one of those royal groupies, getting a piece o' the crown?"

"Is there a third option?" She teased, stifling a yawn and nodding her head to indicate that they should both lie back down. "You mind if we sleep on it? I think all this hell dimension stuff has really caught up with me."

He saw the smile that still lingered in her tired eyes, and didn't feel all that concerned by her hesitation. Not this time. "As long as you're not sending me to the couch, then I could go for a little shut-eye myself." He said agreeably, scooting himself back down into the fluffy pillows, and pulling her down along with him, allowing her to settle into the space she fit into so perfectly, right in the crook of his arm.

Her palm slid across his chest, coming to rest over his heart, as she sighed contentedly. "Mmmm… you can stay."

"Tomorrow, then." He agreed, taking a deep relaxing breath, and resuming his previous activity, of enjoying her closeness.

"'Night, Doyle." She mumbled sleepily.

He leaned over and gave her gentle kiss on the top of her head. "Goodnight, Princess."

* * *

Slowly coming to, it wasn't hard for Doyle to remember that he wasn't in his own bed at the Hyperion. For one thing, this bed was much larger and softer and far more luxurious. For another, he was sharing it with another warm body. And it was that body his arms were snuggly wrapped around, and that body's breath that was tickling the skin against his cheek.

He felt Cordelia stir, and he slowly let his eyes flutter open as she did the same, almost exactly at the same time. Their faces lay close together on the silk-lined pillows, dark eyes and light eyes, focusing on each other even before they were able to fully focus.

Two naked bodies pressed together beneath the sheets.

Regardless of their hesitation to affix an official label on their previous night's activities, it certainly felt like they were back together. And if they remained entwined like this for too long, there was very likely to be a repeat performance of the previous evening, whether they were together or not.

"'Mornin'." He greeted the woman beside him sleepily, a lazy grin edging its way onto his lips. Cordelia lifted a hand to rub some of the sleep from her own eyes. The barest of smiles flickered across her own lips. "Hey." She said softly.

A subtle sound from the foot of the bed, caused both their bodies to become tense, both sets of eyes to open wide in alarm, and both heads to turn toward the source of the minor disturbance.

There stood Silas, the head priest, scowling over them. And he wasn't alone. Other priests flanked him on both sides, and what looked to be no less than a dozen guards were spread throughout the royal chamber.

Both occupants of the bed sat bolt upright, with Cordelia yanking the sheets practically up to her chin, leaving Doyle mostly exposed, but not indecently so.

"What's the meaning of all this, huh?!" Doyle demanded, trying to use the most authoritative voice he could muster. "Hasn't anyone heard of _knocking_ around here?"

The numerous demon faces staring back at him reflected varying degrees of shock and revulsion. None more so than Silas.

"What is this madness?" One of the other priests spoke up, waving an angry finger in Doyle and Cordelia's direction. "The crowned Prince of Pylea has chosen to com-shuck with this _cow_ , rather than the blood of the Groosalugg! It is utter perversion!"

Doyle held up a hand and tried to get the attention of the priests who seemed to be talking about their esteemed Prince like he wasn't sitting right there. "Hey, listen, bud, I don't think it's any of your—."

"Silence!" Silas shouted, causing Doyle's jaw to snap shut. "We have heard—and seen—quite enough."

Cordelia's jaw, on the other hand, snapped open. "Now you listen here, Priesty! Doyle is your ruler—I really don't think you can talk to him like that!"

"You shut your cow mouth, or I'll have it sown shut." Silas countered bitingly, before turning his eyes back on Doyle. "And, you, _Majesty_ —you will adhere to the rules of the Covenant, or there will be repercussions."

"Rules?" Doyle asked dumbly. "Weren't they more like… suggestions?"

The head priest snapped his fingers then and the guards immediately jumped into action, moving forward to forcibly seize Cordelia from the bed. She shrieked and clung to the bed sheets as they roughly yanked her to the floor. "Ow! Doyle, help!"

"Let go of her!" Doyle shouted as he instinctively leapt forward to try and shield her, but he found himself restrained by the guards who had approached his side of the bed, holding him in place. As all the bedcovers went with Cordelia, Doyle ended up being left completely exposed, with armored demons preventing him from escaping the bed. "What the hell's goin' on here?! I order ya to—"

"There will be no more orders from you, Prince Doyle." Silas interrupted with a sneer, before turning to the guards. "Take this _thing_ away."

As the obedient guards began dragging a kicking, fighting, Cordelia away, she still clung to the bed sheets to try and cover her nakedness. "Hey, watch the hands!" She howled. "Where are you taking me?! Ahhhh, Doyle…?!"

"You'd better not harm a hair on her head! Ya hear me! Or you're not gonna like what happens next, bud!" Doyle hollered, trying to fight against the guards who forcibly kept him in place, watching helplessly as Cordelia disappeared out the chamber door. He heard her objections as they continued to echo down the long, stone corridor, getting further and further away.

"It's not _her_ head I would be concerned about." Silas answered spitefully, as another guard stepped forward carrying a large basket, which was upturned, spilling a round, green object with a tuft of red hair onto the sheets beside Doyle. The circular object rolled to a halt beside Doyle's knee and that's when he was able to see exactly what it was—or _who_ it was, as was the case.

Lorne. It was Lorne's head. Lorne's poor dead head.

"I expect you'll be more receptive to our _suggestions_ from now on." Silas admonished, and then gestured to the other priests and guards, including those who'd been holding Doyle in place. "Good day, your Majesty."

They released the stunned half-demon from their grasp and filed out of the royal chamber, the door slamming shut behind them, leaving Doyle alone with nothing but the head of his dead friend and the fear that the next head presented to him might very well be Cordelia's.

* * *

 **A/N - A lot has happened there in Pylea, huh? I mean, Prince Doyle. How could I resist? Hope that was as satisfying for all of you as it was for me! Now on to the final episode, which will come in four parts, plus an epilogue. Welcome to the home stretch, lovely readers. ;)**


	68. There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb, Pt 1

**"There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb," Part I**

Doyle couldn't speak. All he could do was stare in stunned silence.

Lorne was dead!

Now these evil demon priests had Cordelia and were going to do God-knows-what with her. And Doyle, despite being the supreme ruler, had no power to stop it. Just as he'd feared since finding out the priests true affiliations—they were the ones in charge, and Doyle was little more than a prisoner. Albeit, a prisoner that got to wear a crown and some fancy clothes, but a prisoner nonetheless.

"Ah, man. I'm sorry." He uttered out loud, nearly choking on his own voice. "Y'never even wanted to come here. And now it's your last stop—no more karaoke. No more Sea Breezes."

"Oh God, I hope that's not true." Lorne replied, his eyelids opening and his red demon eyes looking up at Doyle from the detached head lying on the mattress.

"AAAAHHHHH!" Doyle cried out in surprise, and then sputtered back to something resembling English. "Y-y-you're _alive?_!"

"Yeah, it's this weird anatomy thing with my people—chop off our heads and we don't die. At least, not until they mutilate our bodies, which luckily for me, doesn't seem to have happened yet." Lorne explained fairly blasé, and then his expression changed to one of rapid alarm and he closed his eyes once again. "Uh… Doyle, buddy ol' pal, I know we've gotten close in recent months, but you mind covering up the goods? I'm getting more of a show than I bargained for."

Doyle finally closed his jaw, which had been hanging open dumbly as he still tried to process the fact that Lorne's disembodied head was chattering away. Now that he was reminded of his extreme nakedness he slid off the bed and grabbed a plush, velvet robe from a hook on the wall.

"This place has gone from bad to worse, man." Doyle grumbled as he secured the robe in place and crossed back to the bed to lean over the head that still lay there. "Those priest guys have Cordy—and if they did this to you, God only knows what they'll do to _her_ for com-shucking their Prince!"

"Nothing good, that's for sure." Lorne agreed worriedly, and then he raised his brows approvingly. "So, you and Cordelia made with the com-shucking, huh? Well, congrats on that front! I always knew you crazy kids would work it out eventually."

"Maybe hold off on the congrats for now, yeah?" Doyle suggested, as he turned toward the royal wardrobe to search for actual clothing. "We've gotta find Cordy and get the hell outta here; or I'll likely be attending four funerals along with my wedding!"

* * *

Doyle peered into the dark chamber, seeing and smelling far too much of what lay within. He'd had to morph into his demon face to move freely about the castle, and even then "freely" was overstating things. There were no less than two guards trailing him at all times, and while they did seem skeptical of their Prince's sudden interest in the mutilation chamber, they had still dutifully brought him there to take a peek. Lorne's head lay nestled inside the sack Doyle was conspicuously trying to hide under his several layers of clothing, which, along with his frazzled nerves, were causing him to sweat profusely.

"Has his Majesty seen enough of the mutilation chamber?" One of the guards inquired from over Doyle's shoulder.

"Ah, now that ya mention it—I think I need another minute. It's customary where I come from to pay respects to the remains of a deceased friend—and, y'know, my pal Lorne is deceased in there somewhere." Doyle replied, tossing a quick glance over his shoulder. "Any flower shops in the castle? Maybe ya can grab me a bunch? So, I can do this whole payin' my respects thing good and proper?"

"Flowers, Sire?" The other guard asked with bemusement. "What purpose would this serve? The stench of death is far too potent to be masked by mere potpourri."

"Ya can say that again, bud." Doyle agreed, wrinkling his demon nose in distaste and then opening his mouth to continue. Before he could speak again, he was distracted by a flurry of movement from further down the hall—a flash of green satin beneath the long, thick waves of fiery red hair.

"My Prince!" Nixaleen shouted breathlessly, racing down the long stone corridor and coming to an abrupt stop beside Doyle and the two guards. She eyed the armored demons warily and then planted her pleading eyes on Doyle. "I beseech a word with thee… in _private_."

He wasn't sure if being left alone with Nixaleen would improve his situation, but the look in her wide black eyes gave him an idea. He hoped he wouldn't hurt her feelings in the process, but right now, he had far more pressing matters to worry about. Namely, getting himself an extra moment in the mutilation chamber without the watchful eyes of the guards—something he was rather desperate to do. And he had no doubt that Lorne, still clumsily stuck under his sweaty layers of silk and velvet, would also very much appreciate the speeding up of this mission.

Turning his attention on the two guards, Doyle nodded toward the statuesque half-demoness begging for his attention, "I know it's against your orders—strictly speaking—but ya mind giving us a moment here?" He waggled his eyebrows, making his implication clear. "The lady and I have some unfinished business."

The guards exchanged an uncertain look; clearly, they were not supposed to leave Doyle alone under any circumstances, and yet, any man—demon or otherwise—could read the signals that were being broadcast loud and clear. Their Prince was asking for a stolen moment with a woman seeking his affections—a woman who was in the running to become his wife, as it so happened—what was the harm in that?

"Perhaps… a cursory search of the hallway would be wise, your Majesty." The first guard suggested. "To make sure all is in order."

"That sounds like a real good idea to me." Doyle agreed, giving them an exaggerated wink. "Start at the far end and work your way back here, slow and even-like. Not to brag, but this could take a while."

The second guard smirked slightly at the first, and the two nodded in awkward unison, before shuffling further down the hallway, their armor clanking all the way. Doyle waited until they were well out of earshot before turning back to Nixaleen. "Can't thank ya enough for your incredible timing, darlin', but now I'm gonna have to ask _you_ to leave as well—I'm kinda in the middle of something here." He nodded over his shoulder into the mutilation chamber, where the potent smell of decomposing limbs still wafted. "Something I'm pretty sure ya don't wanna be involved in, judging by the smell o' things."

"But, your Majesty, I must know… are the rumors true?" Nixaleen pleaded ardently, clasping her hands in front of her bosom. "Have you chosen to com-shuck with a full-blooded cow over _me_?"

"Boy, does this castle have ears, or what?!" Doyle muttered, shifting his weight uncomfortably and earning an "oomph" from Lorne, who did not seem to approve of the new position. Shooting a glance down the hallway, seeing that the guards had reached the far end and were just rounding the corner out-of-sight, Doyle was desperate to wrap up this conversation as quickly as possible and get back to his task. "Ah… yeah, it's true."

He watched as the red-head's face fell, and he almost felt a little bad for her—although not quite as bad as he'd feel for Lorne if he didn't retrieve that darn body while it was still in one piece.

"Was I that unworthy of your love?" Nixaleen wondered sorrowfully.

"Hey, no. It's nothing like that." He assured her, reaching out to give her shoulder a friendly pat. "Trust me—if things were different, I'da com-shucked with you in a heartbeat."

"Then… you do desire me?" Nixaleen asked uncertainly.

Doyle shifted again, this time taking greater care not to bump Lorne's head into anything. He sighed heavily, wondering how he was going to get himself out of this particular knot. "It's not about desire—ah, well, actually, it _is_ about desire—but, more importantly, it's about love. The thing of it is, I can't love ya, Nixa, or anyone else around here. I'm already _in_ love and have been for a long time. That, ah— _cow_ ya keep referring to—she happens to be the love of my life, and as long as she'll have me, no one else stands a chance."

She was aghast. "But how could you love such a lowly creature?"

"There ya go again with all that lowly nonsense." Doyle gently chastised her, with a shake of his head. "Cordelia's nothing of the sort—in fact, most people would argue that _I'm_ the lowly one in our relationship—assuming we _have_ a relationship, which hasn't exactly been decided yet."

"You love her regardless of her station." The red headed demon uttered in quiet awe. "As truly as any demon has ever loved another. It doesn't matter that she is human."

"Actually, it matters quite a bit that she's human." Doyle insisted. "Loving her makes _me_ feel human. Which is what I prefer to be—it's the demon half I've always tried to hide. Back where I come from, the spikes are something to be ashamed of."

"That is very odd." Nixaleen observed. "I have rarely seen a demon face as formidable as yours—I should think your people would make you a Prince based on that alone. Are humans much stronger than demons in this foreign land you hale from?"

"It's a long story." Doyle hedged. "And, not really the point. Y'see, it's not about whether you're human or demon or half of each. When it comes to matters of the heart, it's not a choice, it's a feeling. And I feel it with every bone in my body, Cordelia's the one for me."

"I think..." Nixaleen's expression changed rapidly, as a wide smile spread across her face, and her dark eyes took on a dreamy and faraway look. "Your love is beautiful. It transcends class and species divides. Not even destiny can alter it. I wish, with all my heart, that someday I will find something so strong and true for myself, but I fear it an impossible feat."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll find it." Doyle said kindly. "Y'know, if Pylea doesn't appreciate a lovely girl, such as yourself, ya oughtta consider giving Earth a try. I'm sure they'd be lining up—humans _and_ demons. Not to mention, that brother o' yours can kick some serious ass, yeah? Take him along and I doubt any fella's gonna be too eager to break your heart."

"My brother is my keeper." Nixaleen agreed, with a bashful nod. "He oft does my bidding."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm glad we settled all that." Doyle enthused, gesturing down the hallway for her to take her leave. "Now I should really get back to my business here."

"Yes, of course, my Prince." She said, giving him a slow, uncertain curtsy. "There is just one more thing… as penance for disgracing myself, I bid my brother to remove your friend's body from the mutilation chamber and return it to his people. It was my hope that I may win back your favor with this gesture of loyalty. Only now, I fear it was an err."

"Oh no!" Doyle shouted excitedly. "That wasn't an err at all! In fact, it's the opposite of an err. I could honestly kiss ya!" He saw the deep blush that instantly rose in her cheeks, and he held out his hand in clarification. "That's just a figure of speech, darlin'. I just mean—ya did a great thing here. D'ya know where the body is right now?"

"It waits at the eastern Watchtower for its kinsman." She replied shyly.

Doyle tossed a nervous glance over his shoulder at the still-empty hallway that would probably not remain that way for too much longer, if the distant clang of metal armor was any indication. "C'mon, we have to—Ahhhh!"

The vision hit Doyle suddenly, without any warning, sending him careening sideways. Luckily, he was able to brace himself against the wall, and did not crash land on the hard, stone surface of the floor, crushing Lorne's head underneath his weight. He owed his balance to his demon guise, which undoubtedly made the vision more tolerable. It was still painful, but the demon took the edge off, also affording him advanced stamina and agility to remain on his own feet. Perhaps, it would be wise to use his demon form whenever he felt a vision incoming from now on—in addition to all the other positive aspects, it was a good bet the demon would prevent any further damage to his brain.

"Your Majesty, do you seek assistance from a healer?" Nixaleen's distant voice barely grazed the surface of his consciousness, but he felt her reach out to help stabilize him, and as he slowly came back to reality, her wide, concerned eyes were what greeted him.

The migraine subsided as quickly as it came, and Doyle felt the foreign sheen of tears blur his red demon eyes. "Cordy!" He gasped involuntarily. Hers was the face he'd seen in his vision. She was the person in danger—about to be put to death by the tribunal. "They're gonna kill her—I have to go!"

"Your love? She is in mortal danger?" Nixaleen fretted.

He had to think fast, and trust his instincts, which, in turn, told him he could trust the young woman who was currently worrying over him. He began unhooking the satchel from under his thick layers of clothing.

"Ouch! Hey, watch the head." Lorne grumbled as he was jostled about.

"I'm gonna need ya to do me one more favor, Nixa." Doyle asked, handing the sack to the puzzled girl before him. "I need ya to take this to the eastern Watchtower and make sure Lorne gets put back together again. Think ya can do that for me?"

Taking the sack from Doyle's flustered hands, she opened it and peered inside, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Hey there, sugar, just watch all the swinging—I'm getting kinda queasy in here." Lorne's head greeted her amicably from inside the sack.

* * *

Doyle burst through the heavy double doors of the throne room, not caring one bit that he was loud, disruptive and drew immediate attention to himself, despite the fact that he'd finally managed to shake the guards who'd been following him around all morning. He'd raced through the winding corridors of the castle as quickly as his demon legs would carry him, fearing that he'd be too late to stop the horrific vision he'd watched unfold in his mind. Undoubtedly, his worst nightmare—Cordelia, executed before a cheering crowd.

Thanks to his demon speed and stamina, not to mention the sheer amount of adrenaline he had coursing through his veins, he'd made record time and was barely out of breath. So, then, his gasp of air upon reaching his destination was entirely one of relief, rather than necessity.

There, shackled and wearing the dirty burlap sack was a furious-looking Cordelia, who was otherwise unharmed.

"Oh thank God!" He shouted, coming up short in front of her, and being greeted with a wide-eyed look of incredulity.

"Thank God?!" She snapped at him. "Do you know what they plan on doing to me?!" She asked nodding to the shackles, which held her in place in the center of the room. "I'll give you a hint, it involves a key part of my anatomy on a chopping block!"

"And the fact they haven't done it _yet_ is exactly why I'm thankful, darlin'." He responded. His eyes shifted to the other occupants of the room, which were various priests and guards. The sea of robes parted, and it was Silas who stepped forward, naturally. It was always Silas. Doyle had really grown to loathe this guy, in particular. "Let 'er go! I want her released. Now!"

"That cannot be done." Silas responded evenly, and with more than a hint of derision. "The rumors of our Prince's recent indiscretion have already traveled beyond the castle walls."

"I don't see why everyone cares so much—it's not the first time that's happened, y'know!" Cordelia blustered from her place, still cuffed to the floor. "Oooh, call the authorities! Premarital com-shucking! Geez, and I thought the locker-room talk was bad in high school."

Silas didn't bother acknowledging her outburst, keeping his contemptuous eyes focused solely on the half-demon before him. "That a _cow_ would be chosen for the com-shuck… it has unsettled the populace, and further emboldened the rebels. I fear an uprising is imminent, unless we do something to quash it. The cow must be punished."

"Yeah, well, let's talk about this like civilized folks." Doyle argued. "Rumors are just words. How 'bout this—why don't ya just put another rumor out there, tell 'em ya punished her for seducing me—"

"Seducing you?!" Cordelia cried. "That is _so_ not what happened! You seduced _me_!"

"Cordy, I'm trying to save your life here, think ya could just go with my version of events, just this once?" He shot back, with a furrowed brow.

"How is turning me into some evil cow seductress helping the situation?" She grumbled back. "You're the one who kissed me—it's _your_ fault these demons want to detach my head from my body!"

"Fine. I seduced her." Doyle amended, turning his attention back to Silas. "Punish me, if ya like, but I'm thinking ya don't _actually_ need to punish anyone. All this can be solved with a little diplomacy, yeah?"

Silas, however, didn't seem interested in anything of the sort. "In order to dissuade the rebellion, an example must be made—a public display, sanctioned by our supreme ruler." He gestured to the many guards who surrounded them. "Bring her to the square and ring the bells—her head comes off at sundown, the royal wedding shall follow."

"Wouldn't it be more festive to remove my head _after_ the wedding?!" Cordelia shrieked as the guards seized her once again. "Or not at all. 'Cause I feel like I've really learned my lesson and I'm actually great at being a slave. Better than most other slaves, for sure. Cleaning bedchambers—totally my thing. Tell them, Doyle!"

"Listen here, if y'think I'm just gonna stand by, let ya kill her and then get married, you've got another thing coming, bud!" Doyle shouted, moving to physically stop the guards from hauling Cordelia off to her death, and quickly finding himself in the custody of multiple guards.

"You shall do exactly what I tell you to do." Silas remarked, as Doyle's hands were quickly bound behind his back, rendering his resistance a futile struggle.

"You can tie me up, but I won't go out there quietly!" Doyle barked. "How's it gonna look if your Prince is bound and gagged—not exactly the resounding endorsement you were going for, huh?"

Silas didn't so much as blink. "A gag won't be necessary—one word from you will result in a slow and agonizing death for the cow, rather than the swift one I had planned. I presume you care enough for this beast, not to see it suffer in its final moments."

"She." Doyle corrected, swallowing hard as the bile rose up in his throat. "Not it."

He watched as Cordelia was dragged off for the second time that day. The only thing that would be worse than watching her die, would be watching her suffer first.

Doyle was powerless to stop it. Tied up, surrounded by guards, without so much as one ally at his side. He just had to hope those allies of his were out there right now, planning a way to swoop in and rescue them. He had to believe that was the truth.

He had to believe the story wouldn't end this way.

It shouldn't end this way.


	69. There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb, Pt 2

**"There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb," Part II**

"Once the Prince's justice has been carried out—and this cow is punished with a swift death for her egregious acts of treason—the supreme ruler of Pylea shall choose his bride. As the prophecy has foretold, she will be blood of the Groosalugg. On this very night the com-shuck will be completed and the monarchy fully restored!" Silas' voice boomed out over the rowdy crowd of onlookers, eliciting a riotous cheer.

Doyle stood anxiously on the high platform overlooking the lower platform where Cordelia was tied up, awaiting the literal fall of an axe. His green demon-hands were still bound behind his back, unseen by any of the crowd below thanks to the thick red velvet robe that cascaded over his ornate wedding attire. He'd been forced to dress up for this charade, the threat of Cordelia's torture being levied over his head, along with his crown, which had started to itch. Her current wellbeing was the only reason he was playing along, looking for that one moment when he would have an actual chance of saving her—praying that moment would actually come, which he wasn't entirely certain it would.

The bells had been ringing for hours, bringing a sizable crowd of villagers to the square, all of whom had spent half the day jeering at the prisoner, throwing all manner of rotten foods onto the platform where she was bound; they fervently called for the removal of her head. Beside Doyle, on the royal dais, stood the Groosalugg, and behind the two half-demon men, stood all three of the Groosalugg's sisters, Yattaley, Trizzabett and Nixaleen. All were dressed for the wedding that was scheduled to follow the execution; the identity of the Pylean Princess still to be decided. Guards were stationed below the platform, keeping the rowdy crowd from approaching, or Doyle from escaping into said crowd. Not that he was looking to escape, unless he could assure Cordelia would be escaping with him.

Things weren't looking all that promising at the moment, considering that nowhere in that crowd did Doyle see a friendly face, such as Angel, for instance. He was completely on his own… or was he? He turned to the muscular hunk of demon standing at his side, furrowing his own demon brow in curiosity.

"Hey there, Groo… alright if I call ya that?" Doyle wondered, keeping his peripheral vision firmly focused on the happenings on the execution stage below. "I never got a chance to thank ya for helping my pal Lorne earlier today."

The Groosalugg eyed Doyle warily, barely turning to face him. "Of course, Sire. Do not mention it." He lowered his voice considerably, speaking out of the side of his mouth. "My sister, Nixa, spoke of your kindness toward her—assisting in your friend's safe return to his people was the least I could do."

"Yeah, well, some might call it brave. Heroic even." Doyle buttered the larger man up, knowing this was his one and only chance to put a stop to the proceedings. "So, why stop there?"

"Majesty?" The Groosalugg asked with puzzlement, tilting his head in Doyle's direction. "What heroic action do you wish for me to take?"

"Another friend o' mine is in trouble." Doyle pointed out, nodding down toward Cordelia who was whimpering in fear as the priests slowly assembled around her, to begin the execution. "You'd have my unending gratitude if you'd help me save her—starting with cutting these bindings on my hands here."

The Groosalugg said nothing at first, as he observed the goings on below. "This thing you ask… it would be a public display of rebellion. Even if I did not fear the repercussions for my own sake, I could never endanger my sisters in such a manner."

"Y'think they're safe with the Trombli running things?" Doyle goaded. "Maybe the two that look like demons'll do alright, but what about Nixa? She'll never be accepted, just like you yourself will never be accepted, no matter how many things ya kill. I'm thinking rebellion—not such a bad idea."

Doyle heard a shuffle of feet behind him and turned to see Nixaleen approach, having overheard the conversation. He worriedly looked over to the other two sisters, who didn't look nearly as interested in the conversation as the pending execution, and he was thinking that was probably a good thing.

"Dear brother, I believe it is your duty to follow the orders of our crowned Prince. No matter the personal cost." Nixaleen pled, her large dark eyes planted on her brother's face, who had turned to face her as well.

"Even if it means you shall suffer?" The Groosalugg worried.

"I would rather die than see Prince Doyle parted from his true love." Nixaleen insisted, gesturing toward the lower platform where Cordelia's execution inched closer to commencement. The guards had moved her forward, and were currently securing her to the chopping block, as a large demon, clad entirely in black leather stepped forward, axe in hand. "He is right—the Trombli are wicked. As long as they are in power, you and I, dear brother, will always be at their mercy. Should they decide to dispose of all the cows—as they have oft threatened—what would stop them from ridding themselves of us as well? We are lesser beings to them. But, we do not have to be. My Prince has taught me that."

The Groosalugg studied his sister's zealous face, and finally sighed with reluctant acceptance. "Very well." The large half-demon, removed an imposing knife from his belt, turned to Doyle, lifted the heavy red cape out of the way, and easily cut through the thick bindings. "What else shall you have me do, Majesty?"

Doyle rotated his wrists, allowing the circulation to bring feeling back to his hands—a cursory glance over the crowd, brought Doyle a further boost of adrenaline—amidst the sea of faces, he saw two that he recognized. Angel and Wesley. And they weren't alone—behind them were Lorne and Landok, and a group of other humans, who didn't look like they were there to cheer on the beheading, so much as put a halt to it, and everything else.

"If ya can keep the guards off my back—that'd be great." Doyle instructed, as he promptly perched himself on the guardrail of the platform. Cordelia had been successfully tied to the chopping block, and the demon executioner loomed over her, raising his axe overhead. There wasn't a moment to lose!

Using every last ounce of his demon agility, Doyle leapt like a giant cat off the top of the platform, touching down nimbly on the platform below, his thick red cape swirling behind him as he landed. He didn't waste a second, swiftly vaulting forward once again to tackle the daunting executioner before the heavy axe could be brought down on Cordelia's exposed neck. Once on the floor of the platform, with the executioner beneath him, Doyle used his demon anatomy to his advantage—head-butting the larger demon while he was down, ensuring that he was likely to stay down long enough for Doyle to scuttle after the axe, which had been dislodged from the executioner's hand.

As Doyle's own demon hand wrapped around the handle of the axe, he rolled back up to his feet and turned around, anticipating an onslaught of guards headed in his direction—however, during his leap of faith, all hell had broken loose around him. Angel, Wesley and their crowd of rebels had charged the stage, and were dutifully occupying the majority of the guards that had been posted there, while the Groosalugg had kept his word, quickly detaining the royal guards at the base of the higher platform.

With the executioner out for the count, all Doyle really had to contend with were the priests, who didn't seem terribly eager to join the scuffle. All of them began to retreat almost immediately, dispersing from the platform like rats from a sinking ship. All except for one. Doyle's eyes darted rapidly to the only red-robed figure who stood out from the rest—the one who always seemed to call the shots. The one who would never retreat.

Silas had picked up a sword from a fallen guard and had raised it over his head, racing toward Cordelia with the obvious intention of finishing what the executioner had not been able to. Lunging forward, to impede his path, Doyle stopped Silas dead in his tracks… by lobbing the demon's head off with the axe.

The priest's body dropped straight to the ground and the bloody head rolled several feet away, coming to a tottering stop at the edge of the platform. "I think ya were right about the people needing that public display, bud." Doyle remarked, mostly to himself.

"Doyle!" It was Cordelia who had yelped from her prone position, tied down to the chopping block. "A little help here?"

Dropping the axe with a clatter, and paying little attention to the chaos swirling around the execution platform, Doyle rushed to Cordelia's side to undo her bonds.

"Are ya okay, love?" Doyle asked as he worked at the thick knots, finally loosening them enough for her to slip her hands out and sit back on her knees.

"Do I look okay?" She grumbled in reply, rubbing her swollen wrists and blowing the hair out of her eyes. "Seriously, is there any more humiliation this place wants to toss at me along with the rotten vegetables?"

"I hear this stuff is great for the skin." He teased, removing a piece of lettuce from her hair, taking her hands in his own and helping her to her feet. "Trust me, ya look radiant."

"It's better than the detached head look." She answered dryly. "Way to wait until the last second there, champ. If you were two seconds later..."

"If that's your way of thanking me for saving your life, I accept." He replied with a wink.

Cordelia cracked a genuine smile then. He, in turn, was wearing a wide grin on his own spikey face, still holding both her hands in his own. "I am grateful." She assured him, her voice laced with meaning.

And then it occurred to him. There was supposed to be a battle raging around them. Except… it was awfully quiet for a battle.

They both turned to face the crowd, seeing that the fighting was over, and a hush had fallen over the people, human and demon alike. All eyes were on Doyle—the crowned Prince of Pylea—standing on a stage in the middle of the town square, holding hands with a human slave girl.

He gulped loudly, feeling his mouth go dry—he'd always hated public speaking. In fact, the only crowd he'd ever been able to comfortably talk in front of was a room full of third-graders. Cordelia nudged him in the ribs with her elbow and muttered, "I think you're supposed to say something, _Prince_ Doyle."

"Ah…" He swallowed again nervously, and then licked his lips as he took in the many faces waiting expectantly for him to speak. "Good people of Pylea… I'm the Prince. Which ya could probably tell by the crown, yeah?"

Cordelia shook her head with disappoint and gave Doyle's hand, which she was still holding a tight squeeze. "Lame." She mumbled through a tight smile. "Make a decree or something. Geez, you are _terrible_ at this."

"Right, a decree." Doyle repeated under his breath, shifting his gaze over to the royal podium where Nixaleen and her two sisters still stood, dressed in their would-be bridal gowns, reminding him of the fate that had almost befallen him. He turned back to the crowd, speaking louder and more confidently as it occurred to him what he should be saying to these people. "Well, ah… I know you all gathered here today, expecting to get yourselves a new Princess, yeah? I see no reason why that shouldn't still happen—I'll choose her for ya right here and now!"

The crowd cheered in reply as Cordelia's head whipped toward Doyle, her eyes nearly bugging out of her head. "You're what?!"

He looked over at Cordelia, his red demon eyes meeting her hazel ones, which were wide as saucers, filled with bemusement and annoyance. Then, he lifted her hand in the air, as if presenting her to the crowd. "Meet the new Princess of Pylea." He declared, giving Cordelia a roguish grin before turning his eyes back on the crowd. "I present… Princess Cordelia!"

Cordelia's mouth dropped wide open in shock as the crowd went wild. Her eyes were still glued to Doyle's face as she slowly processed his words. "Me?" She choked out, in a very un-Princess-like manner.

"O'course, it's you." He assured her, pulling her a step closer to him. "It's always been you, Princess. In this dimension, and every other. Question is… d'ya accept?"

She blinked wildly as tears rushed to her eyes, clearly of the joyful variety, as they were accompanied by a smile of nuclear proportions. "I'm a real Princess!" She whooped, by way of answer. "Does this mean I get a tiara?!"

"Yeah, we'll work on that." Doyle promised, turning back to the people— _his_ people. He suddenly felt like he could do this; he could be a supreme ruler. He _could_ make a decree. He raised his free hand to silence the roaring crowd, and found it fairly amazing that they heeded his soundless instruction. "Now that all that's settled, there's something else… From this day forward, humans are no longer slaves!" The crowd started roaring right away at his words, but he kept going, raising his voice even louder to be heard. "Humans and demons will have equal rights and protections! They'll be free to live wherever they want, do any job they want, and _love_ whoever they want!"

As he said the final words regarding love, he slid his arm around Cordelia's burlap-covered shoulders, holding her closer to him, enjoying the celebratory din from the crowded square around them. Gazing over the sea of unfamiliar faces, Doyle found Angel's eyes in the crowd—he gave Doyle an approving nod, wearing that small smirk of approval that was rarely seen on the vampire's face.

"Kiss her!" Someone in the front of the crowd screamed. "Yes, kiss!" Someone else cried, leading to a chorus of demands for the Prince and Princess to prove their love in a public manner. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

Doyle raised his brows approvingly, turning to face the woman he now held in his arms. "What d'ya say, Princess? Ya willing to give the people what they want?"

She was smiling up at him, the word yes visible in her eyes, if not audible on her lips. Which is why he leaned in to initiate the very public display of affection. Then, just as suddenly, he came up short, feeling one of her fingers brush against a quill on his cheek.

"Ah, right." Doyle chuckled, finding it hard to believe he'd actually forgotten he was wearing the spikes. He pointed to his face and immediately made an attempt to phase—an attempt that proved to be unsuccessful. He tried again and still nothing, Cordelia gazed up at him patiently, still comfortably in his arms. "Uh… well, thing is—I'm a little stuck at the moment. On account o' that whole vision-induced brain damage I was tellin' ya about. Maybe we should just skip the kissing for now, yeah?"

Her smile never wavered, as she leaned in. "Doyle, shut up and kiss me already."

Standing ever so slightly up on her tiptoes, she was anticipating his kiss. This time, he didn't hold back. Their lips met gently, so as not to cause her soft skin any damage, yet, as soon as they made contact, the spikes didn't even matter. The kiss was still fueled by as much fire as ever. Their arms wrapped around each other, he tilted her back ever-so-slightly, to increase the dramatic effect of the moment.

Once again, the crowd exploded into cheers of joy, but for the half-demon Prince and his human Princess, absorbed in a perfect kiss, there was no one else there but the two of them.


	70. There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb, Pt 3

**"There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb," Part III**

A joyful squeal echoed through the long stone hallway as an exuberant brunette, still wearing her burlap sack, gleefully launched herself at the cluster of individuals who'd just been admitted through the front gates of the castle.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She cried, as she threw her arms around the unsuspecting vampire first, causing him to nearly stumble from the surprise show of enthusiasm. "I knew you'd come to rescue me! Never doubted you for a second!"

Doyle, who had been sauntering along behind her at a more reserved pace, couldn't help but furrow his spikey brow at her rather showy display of gratitude. "Hey, why didn't I get that kinda greeting?" He complained.

Cordelia was still squeezing Angel tightly, and Doyle could see that Angel was both puzzled and flattered by her affection. "Uh, it was nothing, Cordelia." He replied, hugging her back and giving her a little pat on the back. "Just glad you're safe."

She let go, and flashed the tall, black-clad hero with her signature smile, giving him an affectionate poke in the chest. "Oh, it was something, buddy. Don't try and be modest here." She turned toward Wesley and wrapped her arms around him as well, despite the fact that he was holding the heavy "Wolf" volume of the priests' holy Trionic collection. "You guys came to a hell dimension for me!" She enthused, squeezing the lanky Brit with all her might, nearly knocking the book from his arms. "I'm so happy you're here!"

"Definitely didn't get that one either..." Doyle muttered to himself, as he shuffled his feet on the stone floor. "A 'thanks for coming' woulda been nice."

Wesley, like Angel before him, returned Cordelia's excited hug, and added, "Gunn wanted to come, too, of course." He explained as her arms unwound themselves from his body and she stepped backward, still wearing her big, bright smile. "We felt it best he stay behind, in case we should need assistance from the other side."

"What a smart idea!" Cordelia enthused, nodding her head in agreement as she turned to the young woman standing between Angel and Wesley, and threw her arms around her as well, as if they were long lost friends. A moment into the hug, still wearing her pearly whites all in a row, Cordelia noted, "I don't actually know you, do I?!" She let go and stepped back, holding the befuddled girl at arm's length to give her a closer look. "Oh wait… I do know you. Sorta. Didn't you try and help me? Back in the barn, with all the demon poo?"

The girl's face was smudged with dirt, and although she opened her mouth to answer, nothing came out of her lips aside from a small squeak.

"This is Fred." Angel explained, lightly placing his hand on the tiny girl's burlap-clad shoulder. "The librarian we were looking for—she, uh… helped me. A lot. Fred, this is Cordelia and Doyle."

"M-M- Majesties." The girl named Fred peeped, giving an awkward little bow, her eyes darting rapidly from Cordelia, over to Doyle, and then back to Cordelia again.

"We are Majesties, aren't we?!" Cordelia responded, somehow managing to broaden her already radiant grin, and tossing a glance over her shoulder at Doyle, raising her brows with purpose. "Isn't that exciting?!"

Doyle found himself chuckling back at her, and punctuating her raised brows with his own, a silent communication of agreement. He supposed he could live without having gotten the exuberant greeting from Cordelia, considering what he'd gotten since.

"Yes, well, I'm fairly certain, young Fred here, can assist us in getting back home." Wesley added with a proud smile, as if he was announcing that he was the one who'd solved the problem himself. He held up the book he held in his arms. "We'll just need some time in the library with the rest of the holy Trionic. I assume that won't be a problem, now that the priests have fled?"

"I-I was opening portals but I couldn't tell where." Fred stammered, wringing her hands together anxiously. "You-you need the priests' formulas to figure that out on this side."

Both Doyle and Cordelia's eyes shifted back to the mousy girl's face, and Doyle had to admit, it didn't seem possible this skittish little creature would've been able to survive here as long as she did, much less hold the key to their return home. She must really be something under all that dirt, grime and burlap.

"It won't be a problem." Doyle spoke up, nodding over his shoulder down the hallway. "The place is ours now. Go wherever ya like."

"Like, the baths, for instance." Cordelia recommended, giving the dirty girl a veiled once over and then taking a step away from the friends she'd so recently reunited with, to address Doyle and the handful of guards who now seemed to be following their orders. "Now… who do I see about that tiara?"

Doyle shook his head in amusement as she began wandering past him in the general direction of the royal chambers, taking a few of the lingering guards and former-castle-slaves with her. "Is there, like, a vault or something where all the fancy dresses and shiny jewels are kept? Because I should probably just check out the entire selection…" Her voice carried behind her as she disappeared on her tiara-finding mission, leaving Doyle and the others in her wake.

Seeing that Wesley looked most anxious to get to his books, which meant it must be a day ending in –y, Doyle gestured to one of the guards standing closest to him. "Think ya can show my friends here the way to the library?" He asked politely, having dropped all pretenses of playing Prince, now that he'd pretty much abolished the monarchy. "Please?"

The guard, perhaps not realizing what it meant to no longer have a monarch, bowed obediently to Doyle first, and then to Wesley and began leading the way down the hallway. Wesley shot an anticipatory look toward Angel and then nodded toward Doyle gratefully, gently taking Fred by the elbow and leading her away on the heels of the guard.

"Looks like you really did get the hang of it." Angel remarked, from where he remained standing, he took one of his hands out of his pockets and gestured to his own head. "The crown."

Doyle smiled over at his best friend, taking a moment to enjoy the fact that Cordelia was right—he'd never had a doubt that Angel would come through when needed most. And that's exactly what had happened tonight. "I guess ya could say I'm a natural." The half-demon said with a chuckle, closing the gap between he and his friend, and opening his arms as he did so. There weren't many people that Doyle would greet with a hug, but Angel was one of them. Which is why he did exactly that, only slightly less exuberant than Cordelia before him. "Good to see ya, man."

They patted each other on the back and then parted, Angel's hands immediately sliding back into his pockets. Doyle's would have, had he any pockets. Instead, he swung them at his sides, hitting the edges of the long, heavy velvet cape that still slung from his shoulders.

"Where's Lorne?" Doyle wondered as the two friends walked leisurely down the hallway, without any specific destination.

"Saying goodbye to his mom." Angel answered, with an involuntary cringe.

"That bad, huh?" Doyle remarked, noting Angel's reaction.

"Worse." Angel clarified. "Safe to say there won't be any future family reunions for the Deathwok clan. I think 'never' would be too soon."

"Yeah, well, at least now he knows." Doyle reasoned, gesturing with his hand for emphasis. "Something to be said for closure, yeah? Really and truly burying the past—no lingering regrets."

Angel smirked at Doyle's valiant little speech, giving his friend a knowing look out of the corner of his eye. "Also something to be said about reliving it… Looks like you and Cordelia worked things out, and then some. I mean, if you can believe the village gossip."

Doyle grinned wide, giving a silent confirmation to the question that Angel was too gentlemanly to ask. "Hopefully, she's in it for more than just the tiara," he wisecracked.

"I'm happy for you." Angel said sincerely. "Both of you. You deserve to be happy."

"Not just us, y'know—but, I'd appreciate if ya stay _imperfectly_ happy, just to be on the safe side." Doyle replied with a laugh. "How's about the whole sunlight thing, huh? Maybe ya should consider a summer home here."

Angel shook his head adamantly, slowly coming to a halt, so he could turn and face Doyle. "Actually, I think I'm with Lorne on the whole 'never being too soon' thing."

"Really?" Doyle noted with surprise. "Was it the whole humans-as-cows thing that put ya off the place? 'Cause might I remind ya that yours truly just abolished slavery. Now I just gotta teach 'em about fermenting wheat into beer and we'll really be in business!"

"It's not just the sun that's different here." Angel explained, his face remaining in its serious repose. "The _rules_ are different—the demons are different. _My_ demon is different." The vampire paused and his eyes traveled beyond Doyle, to stare at the large rocks that made up the impenetrable walls of the castle. "It wasn't like it is on Earth. It was stronger, uglier… and almost completely in control."

Doyle stood quietly listening to his friend's words, and finding there was more than a little personal déjà vu to be gleaned from them.

"I came really close to losing myself." Angel concluded. "Permanently."

"But ya didn't." Doyle pointed out, reaching out to place a hand of solidarity on his friend's shoulder. "Ya went to that dark place and ya brought yourself back. And _then_ ya helped save the day—or, if we're goin' by Cordy's reaction, ya saved it all by yourself, mister big-time hero with your mysterious and attractive ways."

Doyle's hand dropped away as Angel cracked a small smile. "Don't tell me you're jealous? It wasn't me she was out there kissing in front of a roaring crowd."

"Yeah, alright, when ya put it that way…" Doyle agreed with a shrug and a growing smirk of his own.

Angel narrowed his eyes as he observed the shorter man standing before him. "What about you?" He asked suddenly, gesturing toward Doyle's face full of spikes. "Does being a demon feel different here?"

Doyle reached up and scratched his green cheek in between the rows of dark blue quills. "Ah, yeah, as a matter o' fact. It does."

"It must've been hard." Angel empathized, his eyes matching words. "Forced to be the demon all the time. Do you feel less human?"

"Believe it or not, being here's made me feel more human than I have in years." Doyle confessed. "I think the Doc was right about the spikes helping me heal. Some o' my control's come back." He shook off the demon, to illustrate his point, revealing his regular, human face to Angel and sniffing at the air around them. "I'm not saying things are completely back to normal. Doubt they'll ever be—but, all in all, things are looking pretty bright in Doyle city."

"Seems like." Angel took that in, giving Doyle a vaguely impressed nod. "Does that mean you'll actually start using the spikes to fight from now on?"

"Hey, I might be getting used to it, I didn't say I was changing overnight!" Doyle objected. "Baby steps, man. Baby steps."

* * *

"You can do this. I know y'can." Doyle assured the two apprehensive half-demons who stood before him, at the base of the throne of Pylea. He wore his human face—as well as his trusty brown leather jacket—as he handed them each a scroll, on which were written all the royal decrees of Prince Doyle and Princess Cordelia. "I won't lie and tell ya it'll be easy, but most worthwhile things never are." He nodded to the brunette standing at his side, proudly wearing her much-coveted tiara along with an ornate silk dress and a brilliant smile. "You can trust me on that."

"But, your Majesty, this reconstruction you speak of—it does not seem possible." The Groosalugg replied. "Perhaps, if you stayed a little while longer—"

"We can't stay." Doyle said apologetically. "I know the Priests made us your supreme rulers and all, but we aren't from this place. We don't belong here."

"Maybe we can visit, though." Cordelia added, giving her tiara a pat, which earned her a beleaguered look from Doyle. "What? It's not every dimension where I get to be a Princess. Sue me for wanting to come back here and bask in the worship every now and then."

Doyle shook his head, and then returned his attention to the Groosalugg and Nixaleen, who were preparing to rule by proxy. "Expect there to be a lotta confusion for a while, these things don't just fix themselves overnight. The slaves are free, but you're gonna have to work hard to get to the whole equality bit."

"We will strive to make you proud, my Prince." Nixaleen spoke up, clutching the scroll to her chest, and smiling eagerly. "To create a world where demons and cows can live together harmoniously."

" _Ahem_!" Cordelia cleared her throat loudly, and gave Doyle a poke in the ribs with her elbow.

"Ah… yeah, first things first, ya needa stop calling 'em cows." He corrected. "It's derogatory… and just not very polite."

"Right." Cordelia chirped her agreement. "For now, I wouldn't worry so much about the harmonious thing, as the not-killing-each-other thing. In fact, you guys might wanna consider some kind of sword-control laws? And mandatory bathing for all citizens couldn't hurt."

Doyle chuckled, as he casually slipped an arm around Cordelia's waist, cheating a quick glance across the room where their friends patiently waited by the large double-doors of the throne room. It was Wesley's eye that Doyle caught, and the subtle nod of his head that signaled they were ready to leave. Now, with all three of the holy Trionic books, Fred could open a portal in a specific location and actually send them home.

"I think that's everything, yeah?" Doyle concluded, lightly nudging Cordelia down the steps of the platform. "Good luck."

"Godspeed to you, Prince Doyle and Princess Cordelia." The Groosalugg stated with a deep bow. "Pylea shall miss your magnificent presence."

"We are pretty magnificent, aren't we?" Cordelia beamed, as she and Doyle passed the half-demon siblings on their way toward the throne room exit.

"I hope that one day, I shall have an opportunity to visit your world, your Majesties." Nixaleen added, spinning her body to face them as they proceeded to walk by her. "I should like to meet this line up of men who would have me."

Cordelia snorted at that comment, and gave Doyle a withering glance. "Say what now?"

"It's just a figure of speech, love." Doyle whispered back to her with a contrite grin. "It's not like I said I'd be in that line."

"Psshhhh. You think I'm still jealous of _her_?" Cordelia asked incredulously, as they continued to walk the length of the throne room. " _Hello_ , who's the one wearing the tiara here? I clearly won!"

That made Doyle chuckle once again, and he pulled her all the closer as they walked. "That ya did. Speaking of which—does agreeing to be my Princess here in Pylea make you my _girlfriend_ when we get back to other side?"

Cordelia pretended to think it over, slowing her steps ever so slightly as they approached Angel, Wesley, Lorne and Fred at the exit doors. They came to a stop, just a few feet from the others, and Cordelia pulled out of Doyle's embrace so she could face him directly, a warm smile beaming upward. "I'd rather be your Princess."

"You'll always be my Princess." He promised, his eyes and lips smiling just as warmly.

Without missing a beat, she leaned up to give him a soft kiss on the mouth, not caring that the others were waiting on them. She was his again, in every sense, and now he knew it for certain.

As she moved away, she weaved her fingers through his and they jointly shuffled the last few feet toward their awaiting teammates.

"How 'bout me? Think you'll throw in a Majesty every now and then?" Doyle wondered.

"Don't push your luck, Doyle."


	71. There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb, Pt 4

**"There's No Place Like Plrtz Grlb," Part IV**

Cordelia couldn't wipe the smile off her face, as she walked hand in hand with Doyle through the front gates of the Hyperion courtyard. He met her eyes once again, his own grin mirroring hers, as he gave her hand another small squeeze. She knew they probably looked like lovesick teenagers at this point, but after all they'd been through, they deserved to walk around with goofy expressions and hearts in their eyes for a little while. And from the smiles she'd seen Angel exchange with Doyle, extending silent congratulations, she knew he was probably just as happy for them, as they were for themselves.

As for the hand-holding, well, that had started back in Pylea—Doyle had taken her hand, and she'd noticed that he hadn't dared let go as they sat side-by-side in the front seat of Angel's car and made the return leap through the portal. Even after they'd both made it safely through, landing in the somewhat shattered remains of Caritas, she found Doyle still clinging tightly to her hand. Unwilling to let go, as if his life depended on it, and knowing Doyle the way that she did, she had a feeling that his life did depend on it. Protecting her—that had always been his priority. Even when she'd thought otherwise; he had always been thinking of her. Acting in what he'd mistakenly thought was her best interest. In this moment, with his fingers tightly wound between hers, and so much love and warmth visible in his twinkling Irish eyes, she couldn't imagine how she'd ever thought otherwise.

"Tacos?" The tiny woman named Fred, who had been scurrying along at their heels, chirped. Wesley was trailing behind her, as if trying to shepherd her along with the group, while Angel led the march toward the front entrance of the hotel.

"What was that, love?" Doyle asked, opening up the space between he and Cordelia, and leveling the bedraggled girl with a confused look. His hand still remained locked to Cordelia's, as their arms created a wide V for Fred to stand behind, looking up at each one of them timidly.

"I remember tacos." She clarified, her dark brown eyes were wide and sincere, as if she'd said something profound. "Ground beef covered with coagulated milk protein within a hardened shell of wheat or corn flour, generally served with a liquefied chili pepper for added flavor and a high sodium content… I liked them."

"Oh, we still have tacos." Cordelia found herself replying, not knowing what else to say about the greasy street food that could be found on just about every corner of Los Angeles. "We'll be sure to get you some— _right_ after we find you something else to wear. Burlap isn't big this season—and I'm sure you'll wanna try and _blend_ when you go back out there into the world."

Poor Fred was still rocking the dirty burlap sack look from Pylea, and so far, the jumble of words that had escaped her mouth in the small amount of time Cordelia had been in her acquaintance, weren't making a terribly great argument for the status of her mental health. Then again, after five years of slavery in a hell dimension, she was lucky to be in one piece... physically, at least.

"Out there?" Fred echoed in a fearful voice, stumbling a bit and nearly coming to a stop.

"Not right away, of course." Wesley piped in from behind the obviously terrified librarian. "For the time being, you can stay here at the Hyperion. There's plenty of space. You can take any room you like."

"Don't worry, Fred. We can bring the tacos to you for now." Doyle reassured her as he and Cordelia came to a stop behind Angel at the front entrance. "Til ya get your bearings and all that."

"The lights are on." Angel observed with a slight pause before pushing open the doors and proceeding through them. "I guess Gunn's been keeping things going while we were gone."

"Clover's gonna be so happy to see us!" Cordelia blurted excitedly, as her thoughts randomly drifted to her small, sweet fur ball waiting at home for her… for _them_. She turned to Doyle with a wide, excited smile. "Especially you—that cat adores you, y'know. She's always been my _real_ competition."

"I have enough love in my heart for the both of ya, darlin'." He teased, giving her hand yet another gentle squeeze. "Always have."

"I really hope Dennis didn't over-feed her." Cordelia worried, wrinkling her nose. "You should've seen her when I got home from the hospital."

"We were only gone a week—don't think she'll be needing kitty weight watchers just yet." Doyle joked, leading the way through the Hyperion doors and coming to an abrupt stop behind Angel, who was standing, staring bewilderedly at the two people who were seated side-by-side on the circular sofa in the center of the lobby. Cordelia's own eyes opened wide as she recognized the red-haired girl seated beside Gunn—it was a face she hadn't seen in a very long while.

"Willow?" Cordelia uttered her name in surprise, and rapidly started to put the pieces of the puzzle together as she noted the pained expression on her former classmate's face, and the sullen one on Gunn's as well.

"It's Buffy." Angel said simply, as Willow slowly rose to her feet, still having not uttered so much as a single word.

She didn't need to. Cordelia knew what Angel clearly knew as well. There was only one reason Willow would come to see them, wearing such a solemn expression.

Buffy Summers was dead.

* * *

Doyle shuffled exhaustedly back to his room in the Hyperion, his shoulders slouched downward with a weight that had previously been lifted for all-too short a time. No sooner had they gotten back to reality, than reality bore down on them. Angel, most of all—Doyle was just the person standing beside his best friend, feeling powerless to help. How could one "help" in a situation such as this, exactly? All the condolences, and whiskey, in the world wouldn't change the fact that the love of Angel's unnaturally long life was no longer _in_ the world.

Pausing at the front door to room 505, Doyle felt something he hadn't felt in quite a while—an involuntary surge of anticipation. Because he knew that his room wasn't empty. There was someone waiting for him on the other side of that closed door. The exact person he needed to have there right now.

He pushed the door open, and found Cordelia slouched quietly on the side of his bed, with only a single bedside lamp turned on, casting a soft, warm glow around her and only her. She was toying with something that caught the light. The light shifted and he saw that it was his broken watch she held in her hand—the gift she'd given him so long ago, engraved with her poignant words. _Time is on our side, Love C.C._ Her head lifted as he opened the door, and her otherwise gloomy expression lifted slightly as she was drawn to her feet and immediately took a few steps toward him, still gripping the timepiece in her hand.

"You're still here." He said with relief before he'd even made it all the way into the room and began his swift procession toward her like the homing beacon she was.

"Did you really think I was just gonna leave after… everything?" She replied, standing before him. Having discarded her Pylean Princess gear, she now wore his moss-green button down shirt and a pair of baggy grey sweatpants. He could see that her tiara sat on his bedside table, sparkling even in the dim light, just as she, herself, managed to do.

"I hoped ya wouldn't." He answered as he finally eclipsed the space between them and caught her in his arms, wrapping them around her tightly, squeezing her against his body. "God, I hope ya never will."

He felt her arms tighten around him as he said the words, and they clung to each other in silence, grateful to have this moment in light of Angel's loss. It was several long minutes before he felt her de-cling and he did the same, allowing her to pull back enough to look him in the eye with deep concern painted across her brow. "How is he?"

"'Bout as good as you'd expect… which is to say, _not_." Doyle responded, lifting a hand to affectionately smooth her hair away from her face. "He doesn't wanna talk. Doesn't want me there at all—just wants to sit alone in the dark. Not in his usual way. This is different."

"Well, for once, I can't blame him for the brooding." Cordelia remarked, tilting her head for emphasis. "Angel's lived for nearly two and a half centuries and in all that time, he loved exactly one person. And now she's dead. Kaput. Even Mickey Mouse would brood under those circumstances."

The tone of her response seemed overly glib, and much less sympathetic than the sentiment of the words themselves. He observed her curiously, trying to see beyond the outer shell that often popped into place to mask her true emotions. "How are _you_ doing with all this, love? Y'know, if ya wanna talk about your own feelings where Buffy's concerned, I'm more than willing to listen."

Cordelia gazed up at him, a brief flash of confusion registered on her face, before she settled back into her oddly blasé vibe. "Well… she was the slayer."

"Yeah, I know that much." Doyle pointed out, with a raise of his brows. "Isn't there anything else? She was your friend there for a while, yeah?"

"She was." Cordelia confirmed with a small sigh, shifting slightly in his arms. "And sometimes she wasn't. But, mostly she was—I'm sad she's gone, of course."

Her words were wholly unconvincing to him and it finally clicked. "Ya expected this, yeah? That eventually the slayer would die."

"No!" Cordelia responded, her eyes going big as saucers, and then returned to their normal size as she realized she was caught by the only person on the planet who truly understood her inner monologue. "Maybe." She finally admitted with yet another sigh. "I mean, she died once already. At the end of sophomore year—that's why there are two slayers now. And… it's not like I was _hoping_ it would happen again." She was frowning now, as she leaned forward to rest her forehead against Doyle's chest, her voice becoming muffled. "Does it make me a terrible person for thinking this was sort of inevitable?"

Doyle gently rubbed her upper arms, sending empathetic waves through the air between them. He placed a soft kiss on the top of her head before he spoke. "No, darlin', I think it makes you an honest person, which is one o' the many things I've always loved about ya." He assured her. As soon as she heard his comforting words, she lifted her head back to face him once again, this time her eyes held a thin sheen of tears. "And I don't think you're wrong. Buffy was a soldier on the front line of an epic battle. She lasted longer than most in her position."

"So… you think it was inevitable, too?" She asked uncertainly, her frown deepening rather than decreasing.

Giving her a small encouraging smile, he nodded his agreement. "What's more, I think Angel would also agree on that point. Not that it makes it any easier on him. 'Cause, y'see, I'm pretty sure he thought he'd get to die beside the girl, and as it so happens… he didn't. He's still here. That's what he's gonna have to come to terms with." As he spoke, he watched the dark cloud that hovered over her become denser; he wasn't sure where he'd gone wrong, in agreeing with her. "Whatever else it is you're thinking, should be said, Cordy. It's still your way, yeah?"

"I'm afraid it's inevitable for us, too." She admitted in a rushed exhalation of breath, toying with the broken watch in her hand, and twisting it so Doyle caught a brief glimpse of the meaningful inscription on the underside. "We're also soldiers, so it's not out of the realm of possibilities for one, or both, of us to die soon-ish rather than later-ish. And I'm not saying I change my mind about fighting the good fight. I'm sure it's what I was meant to do, it's just… I guess, now that you and I are back together, I selfishly thought we could enjoy it for a little while, y'know? I hate thinking we don't have much of a future beyond tomorrow."

"We have right now. That's all anyone's promised." He reminded her gently. "Might I remind ya that Buffy's not the only one who died once before. Yours truly punched his ticket well over a year ago. We've always been on borrowed time, Princess."

"Aren't you supposed to be making me feel better?" She asked sulkily. "Reminding me that you were already supposed to be dead _really_ doesn't help, Doyle."

He carefully reached out to take the broken watch from her hand and casually slipped it on his wrist as her curious eyes followed. "It should." He said simply, lifting his watch-clad arm and brushing his thumb against her cheek. "There's something to be said for living in the moment; not wasting precious time and all that. If there's a lesson to be learned from Buffy's death, let it be that." Doyle rationalized. "But, I don't want ya walking around waiting for the axe to fall, 'cause there's no guarantee it ever will. Me being here right now _proves_ there's no such thing as inevitable, darlin'. The future's being written and rewritten as we speak, and, call me overly optimistic, but I'd like to think you and I will get a lot more than just tomorrow."

It was then that the clouds started to part, and the beginnings of a smile played at the edges of her lips. "We should live in the moment, huh?" She echoed, somehow managing to move closer to him, although she'd been wrapped in his arms throughout the duration of their entire conversation. " _This_ is a moment."

"That it is." Doyle agreed, a grin finding its way to his lips as well.

"Would it be too insensitive of us to start living right now?" She wondered, gazing up at him adoringly through her long lashes, and wrapping her arms around his neck. "I mean, unless you need to go be with Angel. I'd understand..."

"He's in his own world right now, love." Doyle explained, stopping her hesitations in their tracks. "Nothing any of us can do for him tonight. Or tomorrow, or the next day, for that matter. He needs time… and we need our own."

"I bet Clover _really_ misses us." She mentioned hopefully, flashing him with an almost shy smile. "You think we can go home—our home, I mean?"

"I can't think of anything I'd rather do." Doyle reached for one of her hands, removed it from its place around his neck and brought it to his lips so he could plant a soft kiss there.

"Well, let's get moving." She said coyly. "Time's-a-wasting."

* * *

 **A/N - Hi guys! There is one more chapter left, which I plan to post this weekend. When I envisioned writing season two, it was all about the Pylea arc for me; I imagined Prince Doyle making Cordelia a *real* Princess and I knew I had to write a story worthwhile of that fairytale ending. Hopefully, I succeeded and the payoff more than made up for all the pain and torture I put you through previously. ;)**

 **I also want to THANK YOU so much for sticking with this story through it's emotional ups and downs. And an extra dose of gratitude for those of you who left feedback. It definitely helps motivate me to keep typing behind-the-scenes, and as you can see, I really enjoy this whole typing thing. It wouldn't be worth doing if no one cared to read the result, so sincerely thank you to everyone of you who took this journey with me. Here's to more journeys in the future. xoxo**


	72. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"Gotta say, darlin', you've got a real talent for time management." Doyle said with an exhausted chuckle, as he wrapped his arms around hers from behind, protecting her bare flesh from the pleasantly cool breeze that was pouring through the open bedroom windows. His back was up against the headboard and she was seated in his lap, the warmth of her back pressed against his chest. "I don't think you've ever undressed me quite that fast before. Not even when I was wearing the crown."

Two piles of Doyle's clothes lay just beyond the foot of the bed. One consisted of the clothes he had actually been wearing when he arrived at the apartment, the other was comprised of the clothes Cordelia had pilfered from his drawers back at the Hyperion. And underneath the pile of fabric, wriggled the happiest feline on planet earth. To say that Clover had been overjoyed to see them would be a gross understatement. Dennis, too, seemed quite happy, as evidenced by his efforts to enhance their homecoming with romantic mood-lighting, music and climate control.

If Doyle hadn't already felt like he was home in Cordelia's arms, he would surely feel it now that they were in their own bed, surrounded by their beloved non-human companions. It seemed that everything—minus the tragedy in Sunnydale—had finally fallen into its rightful place. Even down to the smallest details, such as the delicate silver chain around Cordelia's neck, with the familiar glass heart dangling from the center. She had found—and reclaimed—her necklace. Not that it had been hard to find, considering he'd left it knotted around the broken watch he now sported on his wrist. As it so happened, those precious items were the sole articles each of them currently wore, as they sat wrapped in each other's arms, relishing in the fact that they had made it to this place.

"'Let's go home' wasn't supposed to be code for 'I demand an orgasm.'" Cordelia replied with a teasing eye roll, that he could sense without actually seeing.

"Something got lost in the translation, yeah?" Doyle noted with a satisfied chuckle. "For the record, ya never have to demand. The pleasure's all mine."

Cordelia reached up to brush a stray strand of hair out of her face. "Y'know, I have to wonder what our sex life would be like, if it wasn't for all the constant life and death stuff—it really stimulates the libido."

"And here I thought it was the dimple ya found so irresistible." He joked, chuckling softly close to her ear.

"I am _well_ aware of your excessive dimple-usage when you're trying to get your way." Cordelia noted, giving him a gentle nudge in the ribs with her elbow. "Newsflash! It doesn't work on me—I am immune."

"Oh, I beg to differ on that point, darlin'. I recall it working on many occasions." He corrected her, giving her a light tickle, which elicited a small shriek of laughter from her.

"Name one time." She challenged him, capturing his hands so he couldn't tickle her again and squirming in his lap in a way that made his eyebrows raise with appreciation.

"Our second date." He responded easily.

She whipped her head around, giving him an accusatory glare, albeit at an awkward angle. "Um, I think you've revised history there, buddy. We didn't have sex on our second date. I hope you're not mistakenly thinking of a second date you had with some other woman?" She said with an edge of warning.

"Not a chance, love. The night I'm thinking of was you, me, a sky full o' stars—and, as you've pointed out, we weren't quite so undressed at the time." Doyle recalled, sliding his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. "I wasn't implying that I had my way with ya in the _physical_ sense. But, I definitely won ya over, with my surprisingly romantic ways—and I'm thinking that night woulda been _a lot_ more like this one if I hadn't been such a gentleman."

"You think that, do you?" She questioned, through narrowed eyes. "So wooed was I by your dating prowess, that I could barely keep my clothes on?"

"That's the long and the short of it." Doyle reiterated. "You were way more handsy than I was, if memory serves."

"That had nothing to do with your dimple." Cordelia deflected, turning fully away from him once again, and shaking her head resolutely. He imagined a slight blush rising to her cheeks, since she hadn't exactly denied his claim.

"Ah, but it did." Doyle gently ribbed. "You'd never have climbed that hill with me in the first place if it wasn't for the dimple."

She rolled her eyes yet again, as she conceded the point. "Fine, I'll give you that one. But, as for the rest of it—no way was I going to make things that easy for you, Doyle."

"Rest assured, ya never have, darlin'." Doyle replied with a snicker. "And therein lies much of the appeal. With _you_ as my girlfriend, I get the best o' both worlds—the constant thrill o' the chase, and the pleasure of knowing I've already won the jackpot."

He planted a kiss on the side of her neck to punctuate his words and felt her body tense suddenly. Although she said nothing in reply, he could tell there was something she was keeping to herself, which was never a good sign. He shifted his body slightly, so he could peer around her shoulder and gauge the reason for her reaction. "What?" He wondered. "That was meant to be a compliment. I'm saying _you're_ the jackpot in this scenario. Or is it my choice o' metaphor you're objecting to—cause y'know, I haven't actually been back at the tables in a long, _long_ time."

"I know what you meant." She replied distractedly.

"Well, I hope it's not the girlfriend part that upset ya." He said uncertainly, his eyes drifting down to the glass heart around her neck, with its four-leaf clover pressed inside. "Ya already agreed to that bit back in Pylea—no take backs, yeah?"

She leaned further into his embrace, resting the back of her head on his shoulder, which was comforting even as her voice held a decidedly somber note. "It's not that." She assured him. "There's just one topic we skipped over on the way to our happy couple-y finish line. It fits with the whole life and death theme, and well, it's kinda important…"

"I know what you're gonna say." Doyle jumped right in; he'd been waiting for the subject to be brought up, since it arguably was another part of the reason they'd been torn apart in the first place. "The future, yeah? We needa clear the air 'bout all that."

"Well…" She hesitated as she mulled over his guess, but answered noncommittally. "Yeah?"

"I'm willing to lay all the cards on the table, whether the Powers That Be like it or not." Doyle explained amiably. "So, ah… where d'ya want me to start? With the Darla stuff? Or, y'know, here's a thought, why don't I just go dig up that ol' notebook of mine. It's in one of those boxes back at the hotel."

Cordelia lifted her head and shook it vehemently, jerking herself back into a more upright—and rigid—position. "What? No, Doyle, if I never hear about Darla again it'll be too soon! _That,_ you can keep to yourself. Unless…" She twisted herself around so she was facing him more directly, still within the confines of his lap, and still sharing his warmth. A vaguely horrified look crossed her face. "She's not coming back, is she? Wait! No, don't answer that. I meant what I said the first time—I don't even want to know."

"Ahhh, okay." Doyle replied in a state of bewilderment. "Did I miss something here? Wasn't one o' your terms for this happy reunion of ours that we not have any secrets from each other?"

"Yeah. But, when I said 'no secrets,' I wasn't exactly talking about your classified intel from the PTB." Cordelia clarified with a quick bob of her head. "I mean, geez, Doyle. If you're going against the express wishes of the higher powers, you'd better have a good reason for it. Like, if you need my help or advice, or need to warn me about something specific—for instance, how terrible I'd look with blonde hair—then, hey, I'm all ears. But, if you're just gonna start spilling all the sordid alternate-timeline details for the sake of full disclosure—don't, okay?"

"Ya don't wanna know?" He inquired dumbly, very much surprised by her about-face on an issue he'd mistakenly thought was important to her.

"It's _a_ future. It's not our future." Cordelia answered simply. "Didn't you _just_ finish telling me that?" She placed one of her hands over his, as she elaborated. "It's the personal stuff I don't want you to keep from me. And considering you were dead in that alternate timeline, it's fair to say that none of that stuff is personal to _you_."

"Well, that's not entirely accurate. Anything that involves the people I care about feels pretty personal." Doyle admitted, trying not to think about some of the more disturbing things he'd seen happen to Cordelia in that other timeline. It went without saying that he'd turn the world inside out not to let them happen to her in this reality, even if he wasn't entirely sure how some of them had happened in the first place. "Turns out I was wrong about me being an objective party in all this. When push comes to shove, I'm as invested as if it's my own future at stake—which, I suppose it is, these days."

"That's exactly why I don't need to know what will happen, because I know _you'll_ always do what's right." Cordelia agreed. "That's who you are—it's who you've always been. It's why I love you the way that I do… and why I'll never stop."

Her voice became softer and more sincere with every word she uttered, and Doyle was moved by her heartfelt declaration of love.

"Please don't." He replied, tenderly brushing his thumb over her soft palm. They sat quietly for an extended moment, but he knew there was still something he was missing. "Guess we can probably skip all that for now—we're on the path we're meant to be on, as far as I can tell. Nothing to do but live our lives and help the helpless… But, it begs the question—what life and death topic were ya looking to talk about, if not the future bit?"

Her head didn't drop, but her eyes did, and her whispered response made it feel like she was talking to herself, rather than him. "The baby."

"Oh." He heard himself choke out a rather unremarkable reply. That wasn't what he had expected her to say, although, it made sense. It was, in fact, the only topic they'd skirted around since finding their way back to each other. He swallowed hard against the lump that had quickly risen to his throat. "Yeah, I suppose we should, ah…" He cut himself off, clearing his throat nervously; feeling very much like this was a conversation he needed to let her lead.

"I wasn't ready." Cordelia announced abruptly, taking him by surprise. She lifted her eyes, and although they were soft, they were clearly reflecting a no-nonsense truth. He knew his own face must've registered his shock at her words, but he made no attempt to interrupt her flow. "It took me a while before I could admit that to myself without feeling guilty about it… but I know it wasn't the right time. And underneath all the pain and anger, I think I was always a little bit… _relieved_." His mouth had completely dried out, and even if he'd had the right words to say in response, he wasn't sure they would've come. She, on the other hand, continued to speak calmly and steadily. "That's the truth. You should know that."

His mouth formed the shape of several words, believing he wouldn't be able to voice them. But, somehow, the words did come. "I understand. I do." He uttered simply, once again trying to swallow away the cotton balls that kept him from saying more—from saying what he needed to say. From saying what _she_ needed him to say.

"But there's something else you should know." She continued hesitantly, as her eyes traveled over his face, searching for questions she hadn't yet asked. "I also realized that I will be ready. Someday."

"Oh." He said, releasing a breath he hadn't even been consciously aware he was holding.

She gave him a melancholic smile. "And, the thing is, I know you don't want that..."

Doyle found himself blinking at her in confusion, and suddenly the words he couldn't speak, came unbidden. "Y'think I didn't want the baby?!" He asked incredulously.

"I wasn't sure." Cordelia admitted with a shrug. "I know you used to want kids before you found out you were a demon. But, we'd never talked about it—we weren't really _there_ yet." Her eyes opened wide, as a wave of realization and hope crashed over her. "Are you saying you would've wanted it? I mean, if you'd known about the pregnancy before—you would've been _happy_ about it?"

"I wanted the baby." Doyle said earnestly, letting a bittersweet smile of his own surface on his face. He reached out to take her hand, and give it a squeeze. "Maybe I wasn't always so sure o' that before, but the instant I knew it was a possibility—there wasn't a doubt in my mind."

"Really?" She asked, reflexively scooting closer to him as her eyes lit up. "You would have loved it, demon parts and all?"

"How could I not when it was half you?" He confirmed, stroking her hand tenderly with one hand and lifting the other to caress her cheek. "And, y'know, with only a quarter demon, I'm thinking the kids might never even have to know…" He saw her eyes narrow and he quickly amended his statement. "That's probably a discussion for another time, yeah?"

"I think for now we should just focus on surviving the impending apocalypse." She agreed with a crooked grin. " _Then_ we can talk about how we should raise our kids."

"And somewhere in between I should probably make an honest woman outta ya." Doyle teased. "My mother would disown me otherwise."

" _Your_ mother. Imagine what mine would say." Cordelia huffed, brushing away the more serious vestiges of their conversation and letting her trademark sassiness take over. "Actually, let's not. If you think I've been tough on your vertical challenges, lack of finances, and eye-scorching wardrobe—better leave my family off the guest list, should the need for any guest lists arise."

Doyle found himself grinning broadly at her carefree remarks concerning their future together—as if it was a foregone conclusion. And from where he was currently sitting, it certainly seemed to be. "Gotta say, Princess, I like the thought of us getting there." He admitted. "I'm not saying I have any specific knowledge in that regard, but let's just say, I'd put money on it—if I had any."

"Continuing with your whole glass-is-half-full outlook, I see." She replied laughingly, as she shifted herself back into her original position, fully sitting in his lap; she encouraged him to wrap his arms around her once more as her head rested against his shoulder. "How long do you think you can keep it up?"

"Ah, at least until my next vision. Then, I may have to empty the glass." Doyle said with a dry chuckle, earning a derisive snort from the woman in his arms. He, too, leaned back and peered out the open window to the clear night sky beyond, complete with twinkling stars.

"Raaaar!" Clover's mighty mew interrupted the moment, followed closely by a set of tiny claws landing on the bare skin of Cordelia's shoulder. The rambunctious ball of fur had leapt up onto the bed and launched herself at the two occupants.

"Whoa, girl!" Doyle chuckled, catching Clover before she could leave any angry red marks on Cordelia's sensitive flesh. "I think someone's feeling a little left out of the reunion activities. Maybe we should do something a little more inclusive for a little while, yeah?"

Cordelia laughed heartily as she scratched Clover's small head. "How about sleep?" She suggested, moving out of Doyle's lap, and rearranging the covers that had been tossed aside during their recent activities.

"That happens to be one o' my favorite pass times." Doyle agreed, sliding over to his own side of the bed, and placing Clover down on the edge of his pillow. "Definitely in the top five."

"I think I know what the first one is." She said, maneuvering into her own spot and yanking the covers up over both their bare bodies. "Actually, pretty sure I know what all of them are—three of which I do _not_ approve of."

"Is that right?" He asked with a chuckle, extending his right arm so Cordelia could roll into his side, and nestle against him the way she preferred. So too, Clover walked in a small circle across his pillow, settling herself against Doyle's left shoulder in a tiny ball. "I may surprise ya."

"You always do." She mumbled her reply, accompanied by a throaty laugh. "Especially in the morning…"

He chuckled once again as he caught her meaning. "Pancakes or French toast?"

"Pancakes. Duh!" She replied, her breath tickling the side of his neck. He felt her arm snake across his chest, and her hand come to its resting place over his heart. "It's good to have you home, Doyle."

"It's good to _be_ home, Princess." He answered, placing a tender kiss on the top of her head and letting his body settle into the familiar feeling of love and warmth enveloping him from both sides. "There's no other place like it… Hey, Dennis, man—could you get the light?"

 _Click._

 **THE END**

* * *

 **In loving memory of Glenn Quinn. Fourteen years gone, but never forgotten.**


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